


Not Us

by claro



Series: And Yet Not [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Omegaverse, minor victor trevor, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-06-10
Packaged: 2018-03-07 16:45:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 67
Words: 82,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3177274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claro/pseuds/claro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When your bonded mate dies it's hard to move on. It took John years to do it, but then Sherlock came back. Can they survive a broken bond and live without each other, or is it really too late? Sequel to Not Mine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I did promise, and I didn't want to leave you guys waiting. Hope it lives up to expectations.
> 
> Oh, and if you like you can pop by my blog [ClaireWritesWords](http://www.clairewriteswords.wordpress.com) where I mostly talk about fanfiction and...stuff.
> 
>  
> 
> \-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade turned away from the smoke that was billowing out of the building behind him, ignoring the flashing lights of half a dozen fire engines and police cars to look down at the two sheepish individuals sitting side by side on the back step of an ambulance.

'Explain to me again how you managed this?'

Sherlock Holmes, brilliant genius and unpredictable man-child, scowled up at him, 'Well, I wasn't expecting it to actually _explode.'_

_'_ You never do though,' Greg sighed, 'Good news is that you didn't do any structural damage. Just...just tell me that there wasn't anything... _dangerous_ in it.'

'In a bomb?' John Watson's lips twitched as he tried not to smile.

'Define dangerous,' Sherlock said at the same time.

Greg glared at the two men and then closed his eyes for a second.

'I don't know, anthrax, plague, whatever you happened to have laying around your flat at the time.'

Sherlock and John exchanged looks, and a flash of worry crossed John's face. Sherlock frowned slightly and shook his head very slightly.

'….no?' John put on his most innocent face and looked up at Greg.

Greg sighed and closed his notebook, 'You're lucky I like you.'

'Well, I wouldn't-'

'Shut up, Sherlock,' he tilted his head, 'Go on, off you go.'

'You're not arresting us?' John asked.

'I haven't arrested you for any of the other shit you've done, why would I start with this? Besides...' he trailed off at the frantic tap of heels on the pavement, a slight smirk crossing his face.

'Sherlock Holmes, what have you done to my house?'

Sherlock looked up at Greg with a stricken face his furious landlady approached, 'Please,' he pleaded, 'Arrest me.'

 

#

 

Once he established that London was not in immediate danger of a smallpox epidemic, Greg left Sergeant Donovan in charge and walked down the street to where a sleek black car was waiting for him, determined to enjoy the rest of what was supposed to be his night off.

He opened the door and climbed in, sighing and stretching as he settled on the back seat.

'I can assure you that I will be having strong words with my brother about this,' on the seat opposite Mycroft Holmes looked disaproving and, if truth be told, sexy as hell.

Greg found his face relaxing into a smile as he leaned forward to kiss his mate, his husband, the most powerful man in the country, and the brother of the most annoying person Greg had ever come into contact with.

'What's a Saturday night without a trip to Baker Street in a Hazmat suit?'

Mycroft tried not to smile, and to anyone else watching, he wasn't. But Greg knew him well enough to spot all of Mycroft's tells.

'Is it too late for dinner?'

'We may have missed our reservation.'

Neither of them pointed out that reservations were wholly unnecessary when it came to Mycroft, but Greg had been a bit strict on Mycroft using his powers for evil.

'Let's just get something on the way home,' Greg sat back on his seat, stretching out his legs so they brushed against Mycroft's.

'Takeaway?' Mycroft said the word as if it were personally distasteful.

'Yes,' Greg grinned at him, 'The greasiest, fattiest, unhealthy takeaway we can find.'

Mycroft looked horrified, 'Do you have any idea how many calories are-'

'You'll be working it off later,' Greg ran his foot up Mycroft's calf, enjoying the slight colouring of Mycroft's cheeks, 'I promise.'

 

#

 

John let himself into the flat he shared with Mary, and, considerate of the late hour, he padded carefully into the living area. He wasn't expecting to see her still awake, curled up on the sofa with a book and a mug of tea. She smiled up at him as he shrugged off his jacket.

'Good night?'

'Sherlock blew up his flat.'

She flinched slightly, but whether it was at Sherlock's name or his antics, John wasn't sure, and things had been strained enough lately without addressing that issue in the middle of the night.

_'How?'_ Mary's curiosity beat her personal issues with John and Sherlock's friendship.

'Damned if I know. Something to do with powdered bleach and milk...is there any tea left in the pot?'

Mary nodded and John disappeared into the little kitchen to allow himself a second of adjustment. It always took him a little time when he came home to clear his head of the scents he associated with Sherlock and to take in the very different scent of Mary and their flat. For weeks now, ever since Sherlock had returned to London following his recovery in the country, John had felt like he was balanced precariously on a fence, with his wife on one side, and his ex husband on the other.

It was never a question of who he loved more. He loved them both, in ways that were similar, and in ways that were very different. Sherlock _had_ been his mate. But then he'd died, and John had almost followed him off that roof in the weeks that came afterwards. Overtime he recovered. Not fully. Never fully. But enough that, when he met Mary, he knew he was ready to commit again, ready to take a mate again. And he was happy.

And then Sherlock...

Mary struggled with it, John knew. She looked at him with worried eyes every time he left the flat, and he knew that part of her thought each time that it would be the time he didn't come back to her. The time he made a choice. He knew, too, that she wondered exactly how far his friendship with Sherlock went now, and John didn't have the words to tell her. She'd never asked. She thought she was worried about sex, worried that every time he left her, John was making love to Sherlock. But he wasn't. That wasn't what she should have been worried about, and John didn't have the heart to tell her that.

If he was honest, truly honest, then what Mary really needed to worry about was the connection he shared with Sherlock, even now their bond was broken and they weren't tied to each other. It was the need he felt to be close to the man, to feel his body heat and to breathe his scent. It wasn't sexual, it was just the overwhelming need to have the man close to him. He could never explain that to Mary, never tell her how he felt in Sherlock's presence because it would break her heart.

So John spoke of friendship and let her think of infidelity, and he did nothing to correct her, and she did nothing to find out the truth.

And so it went.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mycroft and Greg (start to) have a very serious conversation
> 
>  
> 
> \- apologies for the slow updates this week - turns out I actually did break my shoulder, and between pain meds and typing one handed, this may be slightly slower than previous updates.

There was a conversation with Mycroft that Greg had been putting off having for weeks. It hadn't been such a big deal when they were dating, and then they broke up and it wasn't an issue at all, but then they sorted things out and Greg moved it, and suddenly the subject was there again, lurking just under the surface.

Mycroft was either oblivious or simply ignoring the issue. Greg suspected the latter. He didn't want to have the conversation because he knew that Mycroft would see it as a complete non-issue, and he wouldn't understand how big an issue it was for Greg. But then, Greg reasoned, why would he? Mycroft had never been in the position where he'd had to worry about that sort of thing.

The topic was, of course, money.

It had started when Greg moved in, his small pile of belongings dwarfed by the sheer size of the house. He'd left most of his furniture for charity, just unwilling to move his Ikea bookcases in along side Mycroft's antique bureaus and chandeliers. In truth, Mycroft's house, although beautiful, was too ostentatious for Greg, and he still couldn't shift the feeling that he was a guest there.

That evening, after abandoning the unpacking in favour of relaxing in front of the fire, they were getting through a rather large amount of whisky and talking idly about work while they waited for dinner to arrive. Mycroft had ordered something from one of their favourite restaurants (Greg was certain that they didn't deliver for anyone else) and when he went to the door to collect it, Greg took a closer look at the bottle. Talisker 1958. Curious, he pulled out his phone and looked it up. He was still staring at the screen when Mycroft came back with the boxes.

'Drink?' he asked, moving to refill Greg's glass.

'Myc,' Greg looked up at him, slightly shocked, 'That's a thousand pound bottle of whisky.'

He didn't add that Mycroft had been pouring it like water all evening, or that they'd nearly finished it.

'Hmm. I suppose so,' Mycroft was too distracted with dinner to pay much attention to Greg's sudden discomfort.

They had been living together for a week when Greg was sorting through the post, most of his bore redirection stickers, but there were one or two that used the new address, and Greg felt a little thrill, but that was quickly dampened when he opened the first envelope.

Mycroft was in his office going over some plans while Anthea took notes, they both looked up when Greg entered, and although Anthea's face remained impassive, Mycroft smiled.

'What's this?' Greg set the black Mastercard in front of Mycroft.

'It's a credit card, Gregory.'

'It's a credit card with no limit,' Greg forced out.

Anthea quietly left the table and let herself out, closing the door silently behind her.

'Yes,' Mycroft looked confused at Greg's reaction.

'Why had it got my name on it?'

'I took the liberty of adding you to the account.'

'Why?'

'Why not?' for the first time Mycroft looked unsure, 'That...that is what people do with their mates, correct?'

'Well...' Greg paused, he'd had a joint account with his ex wife and it hadn't been a big thing, and he knew that rationally this was the same thing, but that little black rectangle just highlighted how different Mycroft's world was to his, and that scared him more than he'd admit, '...yeah, I suppose. But, I mean, people usually ask, you know.'

Mycroft gave him a shrewd look, 'And if I had asked, you would have said no.'

'Um, yeah, probably.'

'So asking would have been pointless.'.

'Mycroft...' Greg sighed.

The card hadn't been mentioned since, but it sat at the very back of Greg's wallet where he vowed it would remain, unused.

But it was time to have the conversation he had been putting off. He cornered Mycroft when he arrived home from work.

'We need to talk about some things,' Greg said, trying to keep his voice serious, but not so serious that he worried Mycroft.

If the brief look of panic that crossed Mycroft's face was anything to go by, Greg failed miserably on that account.

'Yes?'

'Look, I don't know how to...I'm just going to say it, okay? The money thing makes me uncomfortable.'

Understanding dawned on Mycroft's face, and he sat down in the leather armchair he favoured. Greg hovered for a moment behind the sofa, hating the atmosphere, but knowing that the sooner they got the issue dealt with, the better.

'I had wondered when we would be having this conversation,' Mycroft said, 'I'd hoped that you would get past it without it becoming an issue.'

'Myc,' Greg ran his hand through his hair, 'I _know_ that your family has money, and I _know_ that you earn a _lot_ more than I do and...and you know, I can't even complain that you are flashy with it or throw it in people's faces or anything.'

And he couldn't. Mycroft often spent large amounts of money without batting an eyelid, Greg had never seen the man even look at the bill when they went out for dinner, and he'd no real experience, but Greg was sure helicopters weren't cheap. No. Mycroft was the picture of understated elegance when it came to handling money. He never mentioned it, never made a show of it, but all the while managed to give out the impression that, no matter the amount of the bill, it would all _be taken care of._

Greg swallowed, 'It's just...when you involve me, I feel a bit...uncomfortable.'

'Is this about the card?'

'Partly.'

Mycroft nodded again and the silence stretched between them.

'You are subconsiously-'

'No!' Greg almost yelled. He closed his eyes, sucked in a deep breath and allowed himself a moment of calm before he spoke again, 'Please, Myc, don't... _deduce_ me. I get enough of that at work without coming home to it too.'

'My apologies,' Mycroft lowered his head, and Greg found himself staring at his husband for a long time.

'You aren't taking this seriously, are you?'

'I am taking this very seriously,' Mycroft crossed his legs and, leaning back, looked up at Greg, 'Do you have an aversion to being provided for?'

Greg jerked, not expecting Mycroft's rather direct question.

'I...well...'

'You're ex-wife earned less than you, correct?'

Greg nodded dumbly.

'And so you provided for her?'

'Well, yes, but she-'

'So what's the difference?'

Greg stared at Mycroft for a long time.

'She was an omega.' he said eventually, as if that answered anything.

'And?'

'I'm and alpha.'

'Im aware of that.'

'So...well, it's just...' Greg trailed off, 'Look,' he said eventually, 'I don't want to conform to stereotypes or anything, but I'm an alpha. Being... _provided for_ doesn't sit well.'

Instantly Mycroft understood. He lowered his head, 'I'm sorry. I didn't think it through.'

'It's okay, Myc. I just...yeah, you know?'

When Mycroft lifted his head he looked directly at Greg, 'I didn't mean to embarrass you. Sometimes I forget that our...situation is different from most. Have to admit that this urge to provide and protect is something I am unaccustomed to, and sometimes I forget that you have the same urges.'

Greg nodded.

'Gregory,' Mycroft steepled his fingers and looked up at Greg, who was still standing behind the sofa, 'I earn a considerable amount of money. I am in possession of much more. Regardless of our wishes, our lives together will be against a backdrop of wealth. I appreciate that, as an alpha, you recoil at that. But an an alpha myself, my urge to provide for you is strong. I fear we may never reach an impasse on the matter. In truth I can bring very little to this relationship. Providing for a mate is so ingrained that....' Mycroft took second to pull himself together, 'What I can provide in this relationship in terms of material things is nothing at all compared to what I receive in return from you.'

Greg blinked hard while he reworked that sentence through his head.

'Did you just call me a prostitute?'

Rolling his eyes, Mycroft got up from his seat and closed the distance between them in just a few strides.

'You,' he said, kissing Greg hard, 'Are impossible.'

Greg sighed into the kiss, knowing that it would be a while before the topic was raised again.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

It had been easy to fall back into old routines. Every morning John got up, drove to work with Mary, spent several hours explaining to over anxious mothers that their children did not have plague, then he kissed his wife and set off to see what Sherlock was up to for the afternoon. Sometimes he didn't make it home, and on those nights he generally got Lestrade to call Mary, knowing that it would sound better coming from the DI than from John.

He'd been standing about on the far side of the police tape for an hour when Lestrade pulled up. He glanced over the crime scene with a small frown before turning to Sally Donovan.

'Who called Sherlock?'

She pulled a face in response, 'You?'

Greg sighed and made his way over to John, who instantly started to apologise.

'Just tell me, does he have a police radio?'

'Not that I'm aware of,' John was certain he'd have noticed that at some stage over the last few years.

'Does he have my office bugged?'

'I couldn't say.'

'That's not the same as saying you don't know.'

'I was sort of hoping you might not pick up on that.'

Greg let out a deep breath and watched as Sherlock crouched lower over the body, 'I want them removed by tomorrow.'

'Yes, sir.' Johm smirked.

'You're in a good mood,' Greg eyes him suspiciously, 'What have you done?'

'Nothing,' John held up his hands, 'It's just been a good week.'

Risking a quick look in Sherlock's direction, Greg lowered his voice slightly before he spoke again, 'You two are okay?'

'Not in the slightest.'

'Oh. That's...um...what does Mary think of all this?'

John looked for all the world like a man who was on the very tipping point, 'She hates it.'

'You don't seem too cut up about it.'

'Well,' John shrugged, 'It is what it is, right? Nothing I can do about it. Nothing any of us can do about it.'

'John,' Greg said slowly, 'Don't take this the wrong way, but have you been taking something?'

John glared at him, 'I'm going to pretend that you didn't say that.'

'I'm just-

'DON'T PUT THAT IN YOUR MOUTH!'

As Anderson's exasperated shout echoed along the street, Greg and John exchanged looks.

'If he's swallowed evidence I might actually shoot him this time.'

 

#

 

Even though it was out of his way, John saw Sherlock to the door of 221B. He had a tendency to wander off if he got distracted, and John always felt better when he knew the man was safely inside. That said, there was no guarantee that Sherlock would actually stay there, but there was still that residual urge to look after the omega.

As the cab wound it's way slowly through the late night streets, John took a second to consider the differences in the way he felt about Sherlock and Mary. He hated himself for admitting it, but he didn't worry about Mary in the same way as he worried about his ex-husband. Logically he told himself that it was the fact that Sherlock was an omega and, as an alpha, John had an inbuilt urge to protect him. He knew that Greg and even Mycroft felt the same way about the detective – it was part of the reason John had found himself so spectacularly alone when he and Mary bonded.

Even now he tried not to be angry about that, knowing that it was instinct, and, to be honest, John had fucked up quite badly. But it still stung and had really damaged his friendship with Greg, which was only starting to get back on track.

'Stop staring at me, it's weird.'

John felt his lips twitch into a smile as Sherlock spoke.

'I was just-'

'I know what you were just thinking, John. Please stop.'

John was silenced by the contempt in Sherlock's voice as the cab slid to a stop outside the Baker Street flat. He pulled himself together enough to smile at Sherlock, who frowned in response.

'Same time tomorrow?'

'No. Give my love to Mary,' Sherlock's tone was slightly off as he spoke, but John didn't have time to think about it before he closed the cab door in John's face and disappeared through the black door.

 

#

 

Mary was waiting up for John when he got back, despite the late hour. She would never admit to it, but she wouldn't go to bed unless he was home, or she at least knew where he was.

'Solve the case?' she asked, her voice too casual as she made them both tea.

'I think so,' John peeled off his jacket, 'Might have had better luck if Sherlock wasn't so intent on contaminating the crime scene.'

'Was he licking stuff again?'

John nodded and pulled a face, 'That man has some disgusting habits.'

Mary smiled at him and asked the same question she asked every night, 'You going back tomorrow?'

'My presence is not required,' John said, trying not to feel bad at the way Mary's expression brightened.

'We can have a quiet night in then,' there was no mistaking Mary's intention when she slid her arms around her husband and John felt himself react to her touch. It had been almost a week since they had sex, exhaustion killing the mood every time. He kissed her, running his hands through her hair as he walked her backwards towards the bedroom.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some developments for our boys, and mostly because I couldn't shake the mental image of Mycroft in a tux

 

Few things annoyed Mycroft as much as having to leave Gregory at home when he had a day off and Mycroft didn't. Mycroft loved his job, but he resented every minute of it that could have been spent lazing around the house with a half naked Detective Inspector. When he opened the door that evening it was to find Gregory laying on the sofa in just his jeans, beer in one hand and TV remote in the other.

'Have you moved at all since I left?' Mycroft asked as he removed his coat and carefully hung it up.

'Yes,' Gregory looked mildly offended.

'And what, pray tell, have you done all day?' Mycroft allowed his eyes to linger a moment on Gregory's naked chest.

'Well, I did the crossword with Anthea, and then I had a pretty amazing wank in the shower, not necessarily in that order, and then I got up to get some beer and...yeah. I told you I did stuff.'

Mycroft felt his face heat up at Gregory's bluntness, something the other man frequently took pleasure in exploiting, and he clearly knew it too if the cheeky grin he flashed Mycroft was anything to go by.

'Anthea was in a meeting with me all day,' Mycroft hadn't been aware that his pretty assistant had been texting his husband, and he felt a twinge of unease that he hadn't noticed.

'Maybe she was hiding out in the bathroom,' Gregory supplied unhelpfully.

Mycroft frowned at him and changed the subject, 'Are you planning on getting dressed at any point?'

'No.'

'We have to leave in an hour.'

Gregory's face fell, 'I hoped you'd forgotten about that.'

 

#

 

'Are you sure this is a good idea?' Greg smoothed the fabric of his jacket and took another look at his reflection. It had been years since he'd worn a tux, and he'd almost forgotten how uncomfortable he felt in one.

'It will be fine,' Mycroft said from the bathroom.

Greg wasn't convinced. He didn't usually accompany Mycroft to functions, his husband being desperately private about his home life, and Greg having accidentally outed Mycroft to half of his staff in a fit of anger several months before had not helped the level of trust in their relationship. It had taken Mycroft a long time to stop being angry about that, and Greg had been careful what he said from then on, especially around members of Mycroft's staff or strangers.

'I feel stupid,' Greg complained, 'And I never know what to say at these things.'

He didn't add that he felt completely out of his depth when faced with several hundred posh people he was certain were far more intelligent than he was. He could just about cope with Mycroft most days, and he worried constantly about embarrassing him.

'I promise you I will make it worth your while,' Mycroft said as he made his way into the bedroom to retrieve his shoes.

Greg stopped and stared at him, mouth slightly open and heat coursing through his stomach.

Mycroft was effortlessly elegant on a day to day basis, but Mycroft in a tux was something else entirely.

Swallowing thickly Greg closed the space between them in a single stride and had Mycroft pressed up against the wall before the other man realised what was happening. It didn't take long for him to get the idea though, if the sudden erection that was pressing against Greg's hip was anything to go by. He kissed Mycroft's neck, nipping lightly just over his bonding mark, and enjoying the shuddery moan that escaped Mycroft's lips.

'Damn right you will make it up to me,' Greg said, trailing his teeth across Mycroft's skin.

'We...we're going to be late,Gregory.'

'So?'

From the lack of argument Mycroft put up as Greg's hand slid into his trousers, he clearly wasn't in possession of a satisfactory reason. After another minute he wasn't in possession of his trousers either.

 

#

 

Greg was having a surreal moment.

He was standing beside Mycroft in the middle of a ballroom talking to a small group of US Ambassadors and one of Mycroft's counterparts from France. The Prime Minister was ten feet away, Greg was fairly certain that he recognised some royals and, most strangely of all, Mycroft's arm was circled behind his back, hand gently gripping Greg's hip as he talked effortlessly about immigration and the costs of healthcare.

Mycroft was not known for his open displays of affection, and Greg found he wasn't really sure what to do. Mycroft was giving out an air of contentment that suggested he wasn't putting on a display for anyone.

He tried not to over-think it, and instead tried to focus on the conversation going on around him. He was mildly surprised to realise that the topic of conversation had changed.

'-thought you'd never settle down, Holmes. There was a pool in our office about how long you'd hold out for.'

Gregory felt his face heat up and he tried not to look uncomfortable. Mycroft clearly could feel it, and he tightened his grip just slightly in what was a surprising reassuring gesture.

'Well...' Mycroft smiled softly, and Greg could feel the heat bloom in his chest for the man beside him, and he realised, not for the first time, how lucky they were.

The man in front of them beckoned to another passing individual, waving them over, 'Abernathy, have you met the new Mr Holmes?'

Abernathy was a huge bulk of a man with a wide smile, and he extended his hand to Greg.

'Finally!' he flashed a smile at Mycroft. 'Finally' seemed to be the word of the evening. But something else had caught Greg's attention.

'I'm not Holmes,' he frowned.

'Oh,' the man looked confused, 'I thought...' he seemed to realise that he was talking to two alphas, and a brief look of understanding flashed across his face, 'Not a double barrel then?'

Mycroft chose that moment to step in, 'My partner, Gregory Lestrade. Gregory is a detective inspector with the Metropolitan Police.'

'Not politics then?' Abernathy laughed.

'No, but I hear he spends a lot of time working with Young Mr Holmes, so it's more or less the same thing,' one of the American men said.

'Sherlock? All out war I should think,' someone else said, and the conversation turned to some of Sherlock's more famous antics.

 

#

 

'What was all that about?' Gregory asked once they were back in the car, making their way home.

'What?'

'All the...touchy feely and the name thing.'

'Ah,' Mycroft had hope to avoid that conversation, 'Simply showing you off.'

'Hmm,' Gregory was clearly not buying the simple answer, but he let it go for the moment in favour of wrestling with his bowtie, 'And the name thing?'

Mycroft shrugged, 'I suppose it's common enough.'

There was a moment of awkwardness in the car that Mycroft didn't fully understand, he looked at Greg out of the corner of his eye, 'Does that bother you? Different names? You're ex-wife had your name, correct?'

'I hadn't really thought about it until now,' Gregory admitted. He squirmed a little, never completely comfortable talking about his previous mate with Mycroft, 'And yeah, she did, but that was different. We're...I don't know the social conventions of two alphas. Are we supposed to change them too? Double barrel? Because, and no offence, but Lestrade is poncey enough without having to deal with Lestrade-Holmes.'

'Or Holmes-Lestrade,' Mycroft kept his voice even, eliciting another glare from Gregory.

'Is that something _you_ want?'

Mycroft took a deep breath and considered it, 'I've honestly never given much thought to the matter. I always assumed that, should I ever bond, it would be with an omega or an amenable beta, in which case it was unlikely to be an issue. I appreciate we are something of an unusual case.'

Gregory worked free his top two buttons, finally relaxing again, 'Yeah, but, it's not always...I mean, Sherlock and John, for example.'

Mycroft blinked in confusion, and it took him a moment to realise that perhaps Gregory wasn't always as up to speed with things as he could be. He tried not to laugh, knowing how much that would annoy the other man.

'Gregory, Sherlock Holmes is nothing more than a...persona.'

'Not this again...'

'Not in that way,' Mycoft cut him off, 'I simply mean that Sherlock Holmes does not actually exist any more.'

'But you brought him back from the dead, well, you know what I mean.'

'Yes, but that's not what I...Gregory, Sherlock Holmes doesn't exist outside of newspapers and Dr Watson's blog. Since my brother bonded his legal name has been William Watson.'

Mycroft wasn't sure what reaction to expect from Gregory, but his laugh was a welcome on, 'Seriously? How did I not know that? Who else knows?'

'You, me, Sherlock and John, and my parents obviously.'

'And how did they take that?'

'Oh, Mummy was thrilled, of course.'

They lapsed into silence for a while, and then Gregory laughed again, more quietly this time, 'William Watson. You learn something new every day.'


	5. Chapter 5

Gregory liked to play word games with Anthea. Mycroft had first become aware of it during the time he and Gregory were apart, and while he was grateful to Anthea for keeping an eye on Gregory, he couldn't quite temper the stab of jealousy he felt every time Anthea or Gregory smiled at their phone while in his presence.

Rationally he knew there was nothing to worry about, but it was horribly reminiscent of his childhood, being the one left out of the games.

Mycroft was working quietly at his desk when Gregory walked through from the kitchen, newspaper in one hand an a mug of coffee in the other. He had a little frown on his face as he ran a cursory eye over the puzzle page, mentally calculating how many he'd be able to complete without Anthea's help. To be fair, Anthea generally gave him a half hour head start that Mycroft was certain Gregory didn't know about.

He didn't seem to notice Mycroft covertly watching him instead of focusing on the report he was reading. He'd made an effort to bring less work home since Gregory moved in, but sometimes it was necessary to spend an hour or so clearing up some emergency or other. At least, on those occasions, Gregory would generally sit in the same room, either struggling with the newspaper or, on the really frustrating days, groaning over the fictionalised case files and reports that Sherlock and Dr Watson had generated.

'Crossword?' Mycroft asked casually.

'Hmm,' Gregory didn't look up, 'I'm turning into quite the crucierverbalist.'

Mycroft couldn't stop the small laugh that burst out at Greg's serious expression, 'How is it,' he asked his husband affectionately, 'That you know a word like that, but you have to count out loud?'

Gregory's shrugged, 'Blame your factotum. Don't get me wrong though, I like Anthea. But I wouldn't play Scrabble with her.'

'Few would,' Mycroft admitted, and went back to his report just as Gregory reached for his phone.

 

#

 

Sherlock had been completely off the radar for three days before John called Greg while the DI was at work.

'I know it's not like he hasn't just fucked off before,' John was still trying to fully come to terms with Sherlock faking his own death and the fallout from his return, 'But...'

Neither of them needed to say that they were worried about the other man. Sometimes it felt like Greg did very little else. That said, things had been easier the last few years knowing the extent that Mycroft was watching out for his little brother too.

'Myc hasn't mentioned anything,' he said.

'He's not responding to calls or texts. Do you think I should call round there?'

Greg hesitated. It wasn't so long ago that Sherlock and John were avoiding each other, mostly on Mycroft's orders. But that had failed when it became clear that, despite their broken bond, Sherlock coped better when John was around. Not for the first time Greg wished that John'd had a bit more common sense a couple of months ago when he bonded with Mary without waiting for the full story from his ex-husband. That had not been pleasant for anyone, and the long days and nights Greg had spent sitting in Sherlock's hospital room were not ones that he would forget in a hurry.

'I know,' John sighed, 'Not really a good idea.'

'You know how he gets if you disturb him when he wants to be alone.'

'You're not the one he shot at last time.'

'I thought you had disposed of that gun?'

'...yeah,' John sounded guilty as hell, and if he hadn't been Greg's friend then a police car would already be on it's way over to his flat, 'Well...'

'Look,' Greg said as he spotted Mycroft walking across the office, attracting stares from all directions, 'I'll get Myc to check up on him and I'll let you know if there's anything to worry about.'

 

#

 

'To what do I owe this pleasure?' Greg leaned back in his chair as Mycroft closed the door.

Mycroft looked uncomfortable for a second before his usual mask slipped back into place, causing Greg to frown at him in clear warning.

'Shortly your team will be summoned to a murder scene and I would be grateful if you any and all files and information on it...disappear.'

Greg blinked hard, shocked by what Mycroft was asking.

'Myc...I can't.'

'Gregory,' Mycroft took a deep breath, and although Greg could see how much it pained Mycroft, he wasn't about to just agree to what he was being asked, 'The victim in question is a foreign national who was killed by one of our agents. Unfortunately the clean up was incomplete before someone discovered them. It's imperative to national security that this remains under wraps.'

There was silence in the little glass office, and Greg knew that other members of his team were watching them, wondering what was being said to cause such serious expressions on the faces of the two men. His own team had witnessed some truly unpleasant scenes between him and Mycroft in the past, and Sergeant Donovan in particular was just looking for a reason to have a go at Mycroft.

'No.'

They stared at each other for a long time, both hyper aware of the seriousness of the conversation and what it meant for each of them.

'I wouldn't ask but-'

'Mycroft, we talked about this. At length. I can't just make murders disappear for you.'

'It's not for me,' Mycroft's voice rose slightly, and Greg couldn't help notice the angry flush that was creeping across his husband's face.

'Mycroft,' Greg said, leaning forward in his seat, 'I can't...do you have any idea what you are asking me to do?'

'You've done worse.'

'That was a low blow,' Greg's voice was barely a whisper.

'Gregory, I wouldn't come to you, but the situation-'

'I don't care what the situation is, Mycroft. I can't do what you're asking. Thirty years I've worked for this job, and I have never...I fought tooth and nail to keep this job after everything you and your bloody brother put me through, I'm not going to do this for you. I can't believe you are even asking me to. Is that what you really think of me?'

He could see how much it was paining Mycroft to have to come to him, and he knew the man's options must have been severely limited if his own agents weren't able to handle it.

'That was an order, Gregory.'

Greg gaped at him for a second before fury rose through him.

'Go fuck yourself.'

He regretted the words as soon as he said them, because Mycroft's expression completely closed down. Before either of them could speak a phone started ringing in the office and out of the corner of his eye Greg could see Donovan getting to her feet and trying to attract his attention.

'If you'll excuse me,' Greg said, 'I have work to do.'

 

#

 

It was almost three am before Mycroft heard Gregory's key in the door. He lay in bed, listening to the heavy footsteps across the living room below. He could tell by the slow progress through the house that the evening had not gone well. Gregory's team had arrived to find their crime scene overrun with agents, all attempts at a covert clean up long gone.

After what seemed like hours, he heard Gregory climb the stairs, and felt himself relax slightly. The bedroom door opened and he lay still, listening as Gregory cross the floor. He waited for the reassuring sink of the bed that would indicate Gregory's presence, but instead he heard the wardrobe door open and a second or two later the rustle of fabric. Hardly daring to breathe, Mycroft listened as his husband closed the bedroom door and walked back down the stairs and out into the street again.

 

#

 

'What the hell is going on here?' Sally Donovan pulled the car to a stop and took a second to survey the scene. Greg was already out and halfway to the police tape before he realised what was happening.

There was no disguising the uniform of expensive suits and serious expressions. His crime scene had been invaded by Mycroft's agents. At least he hoped they were Mycroft's, but the way he was feeling about the situation, he really didn't give a fuck any more. He sighed, knowing that the paperwork for this was going to take all night.

As he lifted his head he met Anthea's sympathetic gaze as she stood, immobile across the street, and anger flared in his chest. Fuck Mycroft Fucking Holmes all the way to hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> crucierverbalist – someone who loves crossword puzzles  
> Factotum – assistant or employee who does everything


	6. Chapter 6

 

Gregory didn't return the next day, nor was there any evidence that he had visited the house while Mycroft was at work. He hadn't the courage to check the wardrobe to see how many of his clothes Gregory had taken with him, worried that he would get an answer he didn't want. Instead, Mycroft did all the things he usually did when stressed or anxious. He went to work, he ran the world and then he came home, much too late, with more work than any reasonable human being could get through in one night.

He had no intention of sleep, despite Anthea's pointed looks as she left for the evening, and it was with great reluctance that he dragged himself home at all. All the while he had a tight, queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach that no amount of breathing exercises or distraction techniques could shift. Gregory was not coming back.

There were no messages from Gregory, and Mycroft hesitated at texting him, putting off the inevitable confirmation. Instead he flicked through the CCTV feed from Scotland Yard, hoping to catch sight of the man. But the main office was disappointingly empty, and the blinds were closed on the little glass office that Gregory used on the rare occasions he actually needed to be at his desk. He contemplated going to bed, but knew he would only lie awake in the dark, which seemed counterproductive when he had so much else he could be getting on with.

It was well after midnight when the door opened and Gregory staggered in, practically asleep on his feet. He looked surprised to see Mycroft sitting in the living room, and he marched forward, grabbed the man by the hand and pulled him up the stairs after him.

'Gregory...'

'Shut up,' was the growled response.

Mycroft allowed himself to be shoved towards the bed, and he watched as Gregory removed most of his clothes, barely making it across the room before he collapsed face down on the mattress. After a second he pulled Mycroft towards him, half pinning the thinner man under his weight, one arm splayed possessively across his stomach.

'Go to sleep,' he mumbled into the pillow, just about making it to the end of the sentence before sleep engulfed him.

Mycroft felt the knot in his stomach ease just a fraction as he breathed in the deep scent of his mate, and he instinctively moved slightly closer so he could press his face against Gregory's shoulder where his scent was strongest, his nose pressed close against the mark on his mate's neck, a permanent reminder of how wrong their relationship had once gone. Every time he saw it, he felt the same little flutter of fear at how close he had come to losing Gregory. To _killing_ him. And he lay in the dark, curled against the man now, not sure if he would still be there in the morning.

 

#

 

When John was away from Sherlock for a few hours he started to feel calm in a way he couldn't when he was around the other man. But after a day or two John would start to get edgy. Everything smelled wrong, and his temper got shorter. He snapped at people and felt irrational bursts of frustration and he didn't know why.

He used to feel that way when he and Sherlock were bonded and he could feel the man's every emotion. Usually the frustration would kick in when John was at work, or the shops and Sherlock suddenly realised that he would have to make his own tea, or the nauseating sense of anxiety that would settle in his stomach and let him know that Sherlock had done something really stupid and was worried about John coming home and finding out.

But that was a long time ago, and then Sherlock was gone and there was nothing there but pain. He'd bonded with Mary, was content and happy with her. He shouldn't still be feeling the little stabs of emotion that were clearly coming from Sherlock, because honestly, who else could be so impossible as his ex-husband?

What he hadn't been expecting was the sudden rush of arousal a he washed his hair, and the sheer longing for someone who wasn't his wife. He shouldn't be thinking of Sherlock at all, let alone when he was in the shower, and especially with his hand wrapped around his cock. He didn't stop to think about what Sherlock was doing to produce those feelings, or with who, but somehow the knowledge that he was somewhere close, clearly very aroused, just turned John on more. The guilt didn't kick in until after he had come over his own hand, and he closed his eyes, angry and disgusted with himself.

 

#

 

Things had been...difficult since Sherlock came back from his imposed exile to his family home. Initially Mary had been pleased with the opportunity to get to know the man who had meant to much to John, but over time it became increasingly apparent that they were never going to be friends.

She couldn't quite put her finger on the actual problem. She'd initially suspected that John had been carrying on with Sherlock, but after months she'd had to admit that she had no proof of that, and John hadn't given her any indication that anything physical had happened, not after that morning when Mycroft'd had half of London looking for his brother, and then, hours later, John had come home smelling strongly of the other man and strangely silent.

Since then she had almost gotten used to the change in John's scent when he was with Sherlock. It wasn't even just the man's own scent, it was the way it layered with John's, and the way John's changed when he spent time with his ex-husband. He came home smelling of strange places, heart still pounding with excitement, eyes bright, and then he _didn't talk about it._

Oh, she got the brief outline of what they had been up to, the crimes they had solved or seen, or occasionally committed, but all the while she could tell that John was holding back because he didn't want to hurt her feelings. She could see it in his eyes, and she couldn't find the words to tell him that his reluctance to share important parts of his life with her was only hurting her more, and all the while she wondered how much he shared with Sherlock.

If the things she heard about the man were true, then John would need to say very little, Sherlock would be able to tell it all for himself, and Mary wasn't sure how she felt about that.

No, she thought as she watched John get ready for bed. If she wanted to keep John then she needed to find a way to cope with his attachment to Sherlock. She just didn't know how.

 

#

 

Greg slowly became aware of Mycroft watching him, and he opened his eyes to look up at the man in the half-darkness of early morning.

'Go back to sleep.'

'Where were you yesterday?'

'Workin'.' Greg rubbed his eyes with the back of his head as he took in the set of Mycroft's jaw, 'Some bastard fucked up my crime scene.'

There was silence in the room, Greg spread out on top of the quilt in nothing but his boxers, and Mycroft sitting upright, looking down at him with a guarded expression as if he was trying to work something out. Greg hated when he looked at him like that, but part of him was also secretly pleased that Mycroft couldn't just figure him out in a split second. It made him feel less exposed, and a little excited that he kept Mycroft on his toes. But this morning the look in those stormy eyes was one that he didn't want to see there at all, and realisation crashed over him as he felt Mycroft's worry and uncertainty.

'You thought I'd left you,' he said slowly.

Mycroft didn't respond, he just pressed his lips into a tight line, clearly fighting to keep his face clear of emotion, and failing miserably when it came to Greg.

'Myc?' Greg prompted, pushing himself up onto his elbow, his whole body aching and crying out for more sleep.

'It seemed the inevitable conclusion.'

Greg practically wrestled Mycroft into a half reclining position so he could lean against him.

'I love it when you're wrong,' he said.

'You're not-?'

'Of course I'm not. Christ, you think I could go through that again?'

Mycroft swallowed, clearly a little overwhelmed by Greg's words. Eventually he spoke again.

'Our jobs are going to collide and place us in personally compromising situations at times.'

'I know,' And God, did Greg know. They'd had more than enough arguments over the years caused by conflicts, both professional and moral, the most recent of which had been several months ago and culminated in Greg threatening to break Mycroft's fingers. That had not been a good afternoon, 'Just don't ask me to cover up crime for you.'

'You cover up crime for Sherlock all the time.'

'Breaking and entering a bit different from murder. By the way,' Greg vindictively gave Mycroft's nipple a pinch, 'I get that you were doing your job, but seriously, you need to work on your communication skills, because 'foreign national' is a little different to 'foreign royalty', Myc. You're lucky Anthea was there to deal with it. That girl is amazing.'

'Yes,' Mycroft was still filing and sorting away the conversation.

'But I'm still angry.'

Mycroft narrowed his eyes and made to pull away from Greg, but Greg held him firm.

'As am I with you,' Mycroft said, stopping his struggling, but maintaining his glare.

'Well then,' Greg closed his eyes against Mycroft's chest, smiling slightly at the indignant snort Mycroft made, 'Glad we sorted that.' 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sucks to be John right now.

By day five John was starting to get angry with Sherlock and his continued radio silence. Greg hadn't gotten back to him with any news, but from the little contact he'd had with the man, it seemed Greg was having his own issues with Mycroft and was more than a little caught up with that. John, having been witness to some of their previous blow outs, decided not to bother Greg for now.

Rather cryptically he did get an email from Anthea, who was still in the habit of updating him on Sherlock, a throwback from the time when John was banned from seeing him.

 

_SH fine. Advise stay away until further notice._

 

John stared at the email for a whole thirty seconds before grabbing his keys and heading to Baker Street.

 

#

 

'Sherlock?' John paused at the foot of the stairs, uneasy and suddenly nervous. There was no sound coming from the flat above, but there was a strange feeling in the air, a slight change in the familiar smell that caused his hands to clench into fists at his sides.

Strangers were commonplace in the flat – clients, informants, emergency services, the drugs squad...John was used to those scents that faded into the background. But this was different. Someone had spent a prolonged period of time in the flat lately, which was unusual for the simple reason that few people could stand to be around Sherlock for more than a few hours without getting overcome with the urge to punch him in the face.

John climbed the stairs more slowly than he ever had before, trying to quell the feeling in his stomach, and all the while breathing deeply, trying to place the strange scent.

Perhaps, John thought, it wasn't that strange. Perhaps it had always been there. He made a point of not coming inside the flat unless he could help it, and usually only when he was sure other people would be present.

The door to 221B was open, as usual. How they hadn't been burgled on regular basis, or murdered in their sleep was a constant mystery to John, and Sherlock's complete lack of concern had been the topic of more than one fight between the pair.

'Sherlock?' John tried again, pushing open the door and bracing himself for what he might find on the other side. Unconscious drug dealers, naked women, Mycroft, the possible list went on and on.

He was in the middle of the living room, staring at the wall which looked like it had personally offended Sherlock on a bad day, and he wondered briefly what Mrs Hudson had said about that, when the door to Sherlock's bedroom opened and the man himself wandered out with just a sheet pulled around his waist, pooling at his feet and trailing behind him as he walked. John shook his head, only Sherlock could have made that look elegant.

The other man didn't seem to notice him until he was almost on top of him, and John recognised the look on his ex-mate's face. Whatever Sherlock was seeing, it wasn't the room around him, and John smiled broadly when Sherlock snapped back to attention and realised he wasn't alone in the room.

'John!' he did not look pleased to see him, and for a second John couldn't understand why, but then his gaze travelled down Sherlock's face and neck, and then to his chest, taking in the small purple bites that littered his pale skin.

Oh.

There was an awkward pause, and John shifted, suddenly uncomfortable, and...angry.

He apparently wasn't the only one.

'You appear to have forgotten that you don't live here any more,' Sherlock drawled, bending over his microscope and glaring at whatever was on the slide this time (John had learned not to ask).

'I was worried about you.'

'I was busy.'

'I can see that.'

Sherlock's straightened slightly, and in the movement John saw his back for the first time since his return.

Back when Greg was still angry at him and Sherlock was catatonic in hospital, Greg had angrily delivered a file, courtesy of Mycroft, full of information about Sherlock's time 'away.' Part of that information had been a series of very graphic photographs depicting Sherlock's various injuries, including a series of long, deep wounds across is back. Mycroft's file had been suitably vague when it came to detailing the exact nature of the torture Sherlock had endured, but on seeing the photographs John had felt sick. Seeing the scars, only now starting to heal, he felt worse.

'Stop staring,' Sherlock said without looking up, 'It's distracting.'

'Um...' John tried to take his mind of Sherlock's body, unsure what was upsetting him most in that moment, 'Have you eaten today?'

Sherlock sighed dramatically, 'You're attempts at changing the subject are noted. Points for the attempt, but unless there was something specific you wanted...?'

'I just wanted to make sure you were okay.'

'And not high in a ditch somewhere, or at the bottom of the Thames?'

John bit back the response that he'd found Sherlock in both places on more than one occasion. Instead he backed towards the door a step.

'Well, since you're clearly fine, I'll just...'

'Yes. That would be for the best.'

John nodded and was actually in the doorway when Sherlock spoke again.

'When you see Lestrade this evening you can inform him that I will be available for cases the day after tomorrow.'

John blinked, 'I'm not seeing-'

'Of course you are. You've just realised that your ex-mate has been having sex with someone else and you are irrationally annoyed by the fact. As soon as you are out of earshot you fully intend to call Lestrade, the closest thing you have to a confidante aside from myself or Mary, and this isn't the sort of thing you want to discuss with your _wife,'_ Sherlock's face twisted at the word and for a split second he bore an alarming resemblance to Mycroft.

'I-'

'Good evening, John.'

Sherlock didn't wait for John to leave, before getting to his feet and returning to his room, slamming the door behind him.

 

#

 

John contemplated calling Lestrade as soon as he was on the street, but a small part of him refused to give Sherlock the pleasure of being right. Instead he walked off at a brisk pace, his mind working far to fast, anger bubbling just under the surface, in serious danger of breaking free at any moment.

'None of my business,' he muttered, hands clenched tightly into fists, 'None of my business.'

He'd known that eventually Sherlock would find someone else, of course he would. But John was a little surprised by how quickly the other man had done so. It had taken John two years to get over what he thought was Sherlock's death and broken bond, but Sherlock had only been back a matter of months.

John gritted his teeth. He'd recovered from his breakdown fast enough, he thought bitterly, and then he felt guilty because part of him, a tiny part, but part nonetheless, sort of wanted Sherlock to still pine over him. Which was selfish, he knew, but it was his alpha instincts kicking in. Sherlock had been his omega, his to protect and care for. Only his. The thought of someone else touching him, leaving marks on that perfect skin like they owned it, being _inside_ him...

Ducking into an alley, John leaned against the wall and retched until there was nothing but bile, his knuckles scraping on the brickwork, and his stomach clenching long after the point of pain.

A long fifteen minutes later John had composed himself enough to move again.

He called Lestrade.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

Mycroft was still at his office when Greg left a very inebriated and confused John Watson home to his wife.

'How did your meeting with Dr Watson go?' Mycroft barely looked up as Greg dropped into a seat opposite him.

'You know I've told you it's creepy when you do that?'

Mycroft just smiled down at his paperwork.

'Do you actually read any of that stuff?' Greg asked.

'Sometimes,' Mycroft admitted, more honest than he would be with anyone else. As he exchanged glances with Greg there was hesitancy in his eyes. Things were still more strained between them than Greg would like, and over the last week they had both made a concerted effort to avoid talking about work.

'I take it Dr Watson is aware of Sherlock's change in circumstances?'

Greg couldn't help laughing, 'You make everything sound so romantic, Myc.'

'It's very serious,' Mycroft set down his pen and looked across his desk at Greg, who instantly sobered up.

'I know. I didn't think he'd...I mean, before John he rarely bothered. And I thought he was still on that chemical treatment course?'

'We all did,' Mycroft's lips were thin white lines.

Greg nodded. There were...options for individuals who found themselves with broken bonds. Some more successful that others. There were chemical treatments that interfered with the body's biological needs, stripped away the feelings and connections made by a bond. Greg had been on it himself when Mycroft had rejected him after their own accidental bonding. Sherlock had been taking it rather more successfully since his return.

'What happened?'

Mycroft shrugged, 'He went into heat.'

'But he's been on suppressants-'

'Sherlock has been on most things over the years. Fortunately it was minor, although unexpected. I don't believe he has experienced one since he was a teenager.'

'You know way too much about your brother's sex life.'

'Believe me, I'm aware.'

The two men lapsed into silence. Greg had no idea what Mycroft was thinking, but he was trying to make sense of things through the fog of four pints.

'Can I ask a question?'

Mycroft rolled his eyes, 'No, Gregory. He can't get pregnant. He's a man.'

'Oh. Okay. It's just, you hear stories, and no one really teaches you those sort of things unless...'

'No, it appears to be some genetic throwback.'

Like omega's themselves, Greg thought, and when Mycroft jerked slightly, Greg wondered if he'd actually said it out loud.

'So,' he said, shifting awkwardly, 'What happens now? He decides between suppressants and chemical treatment, starts to go into heat and loses his mind every couple of weeks to sex?'

Mycroft nodded, 'More or less.'

'Well, that's not going to be be difficult at all.'

'There is no need for sarcasm, Gregory.'

'Well,' Greg pointed out, 'Are you forgetting the part where he is an unbound omega running loose in London?'

'It had occurred to me.'

'So you know how unsafe that is?'

'Gregory! Arrangements can be made to accommodate his urges until we work out a balance of medication that suits his needs.'

'What are you going to do? Send Anthea over once a month?'

'I can assure you that Anthea has better things to do with her time.'

Greg thought back to the conversation he'd had at the pub. Bits of it were fuzzy, the downside of drinking on an empty stomach, but there had been something _fierce_ about John that had left Greg worried. Worried enough to come straight to Mycroft's office.

'I'm worried about John.'

'Dr Watson is not my concern.'

'Every time you say that something bad happens.'

Mycroft shook his head and hastily signed his name at the bottom of the page he was reading and closed the file just as Anthea came in with another pile. She laid them on Mycroft's desk with a slightly apologetic face.

Greg knew that look, it meant he wasn't going to be able to trail Mycroft to bed before the early hours, 'Looks like it's going to be-'

The sharp sting of the slap across his face caught him by surprise, and he reeled backwards, looking up at Anthea in shock. She didn't acknowledge him, just collected the completed paperwork off Mycroft's desk and left the office, closing the door gently behind her.

When Greg glanced at Mycroft, the other man was smirking down at the pages in front of him.

'You enjoyed that!' Greg accused.

Mycroft didn't look up, but Greg swore his smile widened slightly.

'You deserved that,' he said, and Greg couldn't argue.

 

#

 

'You're home early,' Mary remarked as she leaned in to kiss John, 'Hmm. And smelly.'

'Sorry, went to the pub with Greg.'

'No case this week?'

John peeled off his jacket and threw it over the arm of the sofa before kicking his shoes into a corner.

'No, Sherlock's...um, Sherlock's got himself a...a boyfriend and has been a bit occupied.'

'Really?'

John tried to be annoyed at the relief that flooded Mary's smiling face.

 

#

 

The next morning Greg sent Anthea a large bouquet of flowers as an apology. The florist had given him a strange look when he wrote the card. On hindsight 'Sorry I suggested you shag Sherlock' perhaps wasn't the most elegant or subtle of all apologies. But it clearly worked because later that morning Anthea text through her word of the day.

 

_#_

 

__hippopotomonstrosesquipedalian_ _

 

#

 

Greg had to look that one up, and when he did he leaned back in his chair and suppressed a laugh.

'Sarcastic cow,' he muttered under his breath.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hippopotomonstrosesquipedalian - pertaining to extremely long / comples words and language.


	9. Chapter 9

Before John and Sherlock finally got their act together, John had unsuccessfully dated a _lot_ of women, and he'd had no qualms about taking them back to the flat and having, occasionally very noisy, sex within earshot of his flatmate. He hadn't thought anything of it at the time, after all, given half the things Sherlock got up to in the flat, a bit of moaning was really nothing to complain about.

Most of those relationships tailed off when the lady in question realised that the majority of Johns time was tied up in solving crime with his flatmate, or they ended rather abruptly when John's girlfriends met Sherlock. Sometimes it had seemed like Sherlock had gone out of his way to ruin John's love life. He certainly had a habit of summoning John to interesting or urgent crime scenes when John was in the middle of dinner, or, with a frightening sense of timing, when John was on the receiving end of a blow job. It reached the point where he was almost sure Sherlock was spying on him, and had been the source of more than one argument, usually just after the girlfriend of the moment left the flat in tears, and about half an hour before John realised that he should have gone after said girlfriend instead of arguing with Sherlock.

When John realised that he'd blown another relationship he would sulk, and Sherlock would smirk and they wouldn't talk for a couple of days.

John's frustration with his flatmate simmered and erupted and simmered again in what seemed like a never ending cycle until John reached the point where he was covertly looking at other flatshares.

And then Sherlock walked in on John having sex.

 

#

 

John's nocturnal habits had stopped being amusing after the first couple of weeks, when it stopped being fun deducing what the other man had been up to, and with who.

Then they started being annoying and when John staggered home, wrapped around his latest girlfriend Sherlock took too heading out, or, on nights where it was too cold, or he simply wanted to disrupt activities as much as possible, he would play his violin loudly, not-so-subtly reminding the other occupants of the flat that sound tended to travel in the small space.

As time went on Sherlock found that he liked John's activites less and less, but he chalked it up to having his personal space invaded by strangers, and he stopped making any effort to be polite to the women John brought home.

He knew John was looking for somewhere else to live, and he ignored the little flutter of hurt that accompanied that discovery, and changed John's password just to spite him. Then he pushed the information to the back of his mind and focused on the cases he had and the experiments that were currently occupying most of the kitchen surfaces. After all, it was nothing to him if John moved out. It wasn't like they had been living together long, or were even friends. They were just flatmates. It was never meant to be a long term thing. And for a while Sherlock believed that.

And then he walked in on John having sex.

 

#

 

The evening had been going well, and John had successfully managed to get the pretty beta to go home with him, safe in the knowledge that Sherlock was out for the evening on a case with Lestrade. They hadn't made it as far as John's room before clothes were being shed across the living room floor and they collapsed onto the sofa.

John was so occupied with what he was doing that he didn't hear the front door open, or the rapid steps across the floor. But he _did_ hear Sherlock's bedroom door close. And so, apparently, did his date.

 

#

 

John was very angry. Sherlock could hear him moving about the flat, getting redressed and trying to control his breathing. His date had already left, slamming the door behind her and storming down the stairs.

Sherlock stayed in his room, and hoped that John would go out.

But, as usual, John came to argue with Sherlock for ruining another date.

'What the hell, Sherlock?' his voice came through the door, 'You were supposed to be on a case.'

'Solved it,' Sherlock muttered, trying to analyse the unfamiliar feeling he was experiencing at the same time as trying to delete the image of John naked and thrusting into that woman. It was unsettling and made him feel slightly sick.

 

#

 

Sherlock didn't come out of his room for the rest of the night, although John knew his flatmate wasn't asleep.

In the morning, having calmed down and unwilling to have yet another fight about his sex life, John attempted to make peace. He took a cup of tea and a plate of toast down the corridor to Sherlock's room.

'I've made breakfast.'

'Not hungry,' was the muffled reply.

'Open the door, Sherlock,' John was impatient.

There was a frustrated sigh from the other side, and a moment later Sherlock wrenched the door open, and Sherlock, face flushed and shoulders haunched, refused to look at John. He took the cup of tea, ignored the toast and slammed the door again.

John walked slowly back to the kitchen. He'd never seen Sherlock look like that before. He was used to the man's annoying arrogance, but that morning he'd almost looked...upset. John found that he didn't like seeing that look on Sherlock's face. It unsettled him in a way he couldn't quite pinpoint.

It wasn't until several hours later, when John was in the process of making lunch, that he rocked backwards with the force of realisation and dropped the plate he was holding.

Sherlock burst out of his room to see what had happened, and when he saw it was just a broken plate his expression changed to a mixture of relief and irritation. He glanced up at John, his mouth open to say something sarcastic, and stopped.

John had no idea how long they stood staring at each other across the kitchen, each deducing the other one in their own way. But eventually Sherlock, face flushing red, whirled away back to his room, dressing gown flaring behind him, leaving John standing alone in the kitchen, heart hammering in his chest and the remains of lunch on the floor at his feet.

After that, everything changed.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know these last few chapters have been shorter than normal, but....yeah, well.

 

Greg and Mycroft had struggled with much of their relationship, and partly as a result of Mycroft's immediate rejection following their bond, and partly because of the course of treatment Greg had taken to help break that bond, the two men hadn't shared each other's emotions and feelings in the same way as other bonded couples had. Well, that was sort of true, Greg knew. Mycroft had admitted that he had been able to feel Greg for all of the time they were apart, having shunned any sort of help. Greg suspected it was part of Mycroft's need to punish himself and harden himself to emotions.

It had taken a while after Greg stopped taking the medication for the first hint of that bond to resurface, but every day he was feeling more and more of what Mycroft was. The slow attachment was much preferable to the sudden rush he had felt the first time. It allowed him time to analyse and adapt, and although he knew Mycroft was impatient, he was also understanding and did nothing to rush his mate.

What he hated though, was the almost constant feeling of stress that came with being bonded to Mycroft, and the sudden hot flashes of anger that weren't Greg's own. Sometimes he would ask Mycroft about it, and sometimes, the times when that anger was immediately replaced with a grim satisfaction, he didn't ask anything. He didn't want to know.

Mycroft had long ago stopped trying to hide his thoughts from Greg, and Greg had never bothered to try and his his in the first place. There was no point when your boyfriend could read every single one of them on your face anyway. And that was before they had even bonded.

As he packed an overnight bag, Mycroft was looking decidedly displeased, a reflection of how Greg himself was feeling.

'It's only a couple of days,' Greg said, trying to sound reassuring.

Mycroft just pursed his lips and regarded his shirts with a critical eye.

'It's not like you've never been away before.'

Which was true. When they had first dated Mycroft had spent a considerable amout of time out of the country, and spent eve more time away during the years they had spent apart. But since Greg had moved in a couple of months before,when they resumed their relationship, Mycroft hadn't been away at all. It had been nice, comforting and reassuring to know that Mycroft was close by and that he would be home every night. Admittedly, sometimes he wasn't home for more than an hour or two at a time, but he always made the effort.

Greg was dreading being alone in the house, even for such a short amount of time. He hadn't been living there long enough to feel completely comfortable, part of him still feeling like he was just staying over at Mycroft's.

'I don't suppose you have time for a quick one before you go?' Greg asked hopefully, earning him a sigh that he knew Mycroft didn't really mean.

'I do worry how you are going to cope without sex on a daily basis,' Mycroft shook his head.

'I'm a bit worried about that too,' Greg stepped up behind Mycroft and rested his chin on Mycroft's shoulder as the other man carefully folded a pristine white shirt.

There was something about Mycroft's scent that never failed to turn Greg on, and he didn't bother to hide his erection, instead choosing to grind his hips gently against Mycroft, just enough to still Mycroft's actions as the man leaned back into him with a soft groan.

'Gregory,' he said, as Greg kissed lightly down his neck, hands ghosting across Mycroft's groin, 'We really don't have time.'

Greg took a great amount of satisfaction from the sound Mycroft made when Greg turned him sharply around, kissing him once, very hard, before dropping to his knees.

Mycroft gave a small gasp and almost stepped back, but Greg was too fast, and had his trousers open and his hands gripping Mycroft's hips tightly, nails digging in just enough to leave marks that would last a day or two. He took Mycroft into his mouth with one quick movement and worked quickly, using his teeth and tongue to bring Mycroft to a sudden and shocking climax.

He was gripping Greg's shoulders, breathing hard as he looked down at him.

'I suppose you're feeling very pleased with yourself?'

Greg licked the length of Mycroft's shaft clean before standing up and kissing his husband.

'Very,' he said with a wicked smile.

Before Mycroft could say anything else, they heard Anthea arrive downstairs, and Mycroft gathered up his bag, ready to depart.

Anthea was waiting patiently by the front door, and as she glanced up from her blackberry, the look on her face said very plainly that she knew exactly what had been happening just before she arrived. With a brief nod in Greg's direction she went outside to the waiting car, letting Greg and Mycroft say goodbye in private.

'I know you can't call,' Greg said, pulling Mycroft close and kissing him again, 'But try to let me know you're okay.'

'Gregory,' Mycroft sighed as he pulled back.

'And Myc?'

'Yes?' Mycroft paused with his hand on the door.

Greg grinned, 'You might want to do up your trousers.'


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter tonight in prep for the angst on the horizon.

John was slightly apprehensive when he got a text message with an address in Brixton. He hadn't spoken to Sherlock since he'd walked into Baker Street and found the man in a sheet. The cabbie had looked suspiciously at him when he pulled up outside a crime scene. John had seen that look many times before and although it still bothered him that strangers tended to view him as some sort of crime junkie, there was nothing he could do about it.

'Alright?' John nodded at Sally Donovan who reluctantly let him past the cordon.

'He's upstairs,' she pointed inside the building.

John cautiously went through the front door and came face to face with Lestrade, who was just coming down the stairs looking murderous. John sighed.

'What's he done?'

'He made an eye witness cry.'

'Again?'

There was a flurry of motion from above, then Sherlock was leaning over the banister shouting down.

'Is that John? Send him up!'

John and Greg exchanged glances, and the older man squeezed the doctor's shoulder in sympathy before the pair started to climb the stairs.

Sherlock was flapping around the body of a young blond woman who had clearly been dead for several weeks and was pinned to the ground crucifixion style. John winced when he saw her and then moved forward to get a closer look. Sherlock was positively vibrating beside him, his excitement only surpassed by the upcoming opportunity to show how smart he was. But before then John would get his turn to guess.

'What do we know?' John accepted a pair of latex gloves from Anderson.

'Flatmate came home from holiday to find the door bolted from the inside. No-no one...no one reported h-her...'

Both John and Sherlock looked up at Greg, who had gone grey, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead.

'Greg-?' John lunged for the DI as he swayed, managing to half catch him as Greg fell.

 

#

 

There were few things Gregory Lestrade hated more than a locked door mystery. It always came down to some bugger trying to prove he was clever. No, give him a nice, straightforward stabbing any day. Greg hadn't joined the force because he got off on solving complex cases, he'd joined because he wanted, in some capacity, to do some good, and putting murderers away had seemed like an obvious way to do that.

Part of him hated calling Sherlock. It was admitting that he wasn't as intelligent as the other man, and he found that demeaning. He'd tried to voice that to Mycroft once when he was explaining why he had put off calling Sherlock out on a violent murder. But Mycroft had simply looked at him and shrugged.

'But he is more intelligent than you.'

'Thanks Myc,' Greg had growled bitterly.

'There's no point in being angry with me, I'm simply stating a fact and I fail to see why you would refuse to use all the possible resources available to you.'

Greg had stormed off to sulk and things between them had been frosty for the rest of the day.

At least, he thought as he watched Sherlock examine the dead woman on the floor, the consulting detective had stopped turning up to crime scenes high, something Greg had to credit to John Watson, who had an uncanny ability to sniff out heroin that would have worried Greg in any other circumstance.

John was pulling on a pair of gloves and looking down at the woman's hands, while Sherlock danced beside him, waiting on his moment to show off, 'What do we know?'

Greg rubbed the back of his neck, exhaustion threatening to claim him any moment, the perils of being on call, 'Flatmate came home from holiday to find the door bolted from the inside.' he swallowed and blinked hard to try and focus on John, ignoring the slight blur in his vision. His parents had been right, he was getting too old to work so hard. Or perhaps Mycroft's cheeky comments about glasses were closer to the mark. He might...Greg tried to remember what he had been about to say. Oh yeah, the murder... 'No-no one...no one reported h-her...'

Greg went hot and then cold in a matter of seconds, the ground lurching beneath him. He was faintly away of John saying his name, and then the darkness closed in around him.

 

#

 

Greg came around in hospital, rolled slightly and promptly threw up over John.

'Great,' John muttered, 'That's just great.'

Sherlock smirked in his corner and then returned his attention to his phone, despite the fact that John had already warned him twice that he wasn't allowed to use it in the hospital.

John checked that Greg was okay before heading down the corridor to try and clean himself up a bit in the bathroom, not that he was all that bothered about a bit of vomit, after all, he'd lived with Sherlock for years, he'd been covered in worse things. When he returned to the room, smelling strongly of disinfectant soap, Sherlock wrinkled his nose but didn't comment on it, which was a pleasant change, instead he was still focused on his phone, fingers tapping quickly, eyes rapidly pouring over the string of messages he was responding to.

'Oh,' he said suddenly, without looking up and with a slight trace of glee in his voice, 'Someone tried to assassinate Mycroft.'


	12. Chapter 12

The first attempt on Mycroft's life had been in his early twenties. He'd been an attaché on a very sensitive trip to Qatar when his car was shot at. Three members of his party had been killed, and Mycroft himself had come very close to losing a leg, saved only by the quickly thinking of a junior minister he'd been forced to have assassinated several years later when the man had turned out to be a double agent. Out of consideration for what the man had done for him, Mycroft had made sure he was shot in the head without warning and not left to suffer.

The further Mycroft advanced in his career, the more careful he had become, always watchful. His staff was small, handsomely paid and very well vetted. He had long ago learned to have arrangements in place in case of his death, aware that, should the worst happen, there may never be a body to bring back.

But in recent years, since first meeting Gregory Lestrade, Mycroft had been less afraid of death, and more afraid that he would die and no one would know what happened to him. In his line of work it was not uncommon for people to simply disappear, and the thought of Gregory waiting for him to come home and never knowing if Mycroft was dead or being held somewhere filled the elder Holmes with a sickening fear, so extreme that he'd hesitated to embark on any sort of relationship with the DI at all, and had been the sole reason he had put off any sort of trip since their reunion.

He'd agreed to this trip because it was low risk compared to others he had made in the past. The party was one he met with often and knew well, so he was slightly more relaxed than he normally was during such meetings. They were halfway through dinner when Mycroft realised what a mistake that had been.

 

#

 

Greg lurched for the side of the bed, and it was only John's restraining hand that stopped him falling.

'What?' Greg demanded.

'Jesus Christ, Sherlock!' John shouted over the top of him, 'You can't just say things like that!'

'Give me my phone!' Greg demanded with such force that John obeyed without thinking.

Sherlock glanced up from his own phone, looked mildly surprised at the reaction he was receiving, and then waved his hand dismissively.

'I'm sure he's fine,' he said, and then, not quite under his breath, 'More's the pity.'

 

#

 

'I'm fine,' Greg shouted over John's protests.

'You passed out at a crime scene!'

'Yes,' Sherlock said, making a show of casting his gaze up and down Greg's body, 'Something to share with us?'

'Fuck off, Sherlock.'

'Greg, I will have them sedate you if you don't get back into bed.'

'Where's my phone?'

'How would I know?'

Greg was trying to get to his feet again, staggering slightly as another wave of dizziness hit him.

'Sit down,' John ordered, 'I'll find your phone.'

With a casual flick of his wrist, Sherlock pulled Greg's phone from his pocket and tossed it towards John, who caught it with a glare.

'Why did you have this?'

Sherlock just shrugged, his attention already back on the screen of his own phone. If John wasn't so concerned about Greg and Mycroft, he would have given Sherlock a stern talking to. Or perhaps a punch in the mouth.

Greg snatched the phone from him and was already scrolling through the messages, brown furrowed. John had nothing else to do but sit still and wait.

 

#

 

_M? - G_

 

_#_

 

_Stable._

 

_#_

 

That was all Greg heard from Anthea for the rest of the evening, his calls and messages going unanswered. John had to arrange for a doctor to sedate him some time around midnight as Greg's agitation and worry caused his heart rate to spike alarmingly.

Greg slipped into sleep and John nursed a cold coffee as he was completely ignored by Sherlock. He would have sent the other man home but selfishly he was still comforted by his presence and his scent, which had returned more or less to normal, all traces of the strange scent gone. If Sherlock hadn't been there, John knew he would have been more worried, and perhaps in need of a sedative himself.

He stole a glance at his ex-mate before turning his attention back to Greg. Sherlock was still wrapped up in his huge coat, legs crossed and attention once again fixed on his mobile. John frowned slightly as Sherlock smiled at a message he received and immediately started to type out a quickfire response.

'Sherlock,' he asked quietly, aware of how loud his voice sounded in the small room, 'How did you know what happened to Mycroft?'

'Hmm?' Sherlock didn't look up, 'Oh...um, I have a friend in his party.'

'Friend?' John couldn't keep the scepticism out of his voice. Sherlock, by his own admission, didn't have friends other than John. Although possibly Greg could be counted among that number, and maybe Molly at a push.

'Who?' John asked, aware that Greg was in hospital with them and Molly Hooper was the last person likely to be travelling with a secret government delegation.

'Who what?'

'Your...friend.'

'Did I say friend?' Sherlock sounded surprised, but he still didn't look up.

'You know you did.'

Sherlock shrugged, 'Just an old acquaintance who happened to be there.'

John felt a stab of something like jealousy that he tried to ignore. Sherlock being vague was nothing new, but this was his brother's life and John couldn't shake the feeling that Sherlock was deliberately keeping something from him.

'Is that who you've been texting all night?' he asked, deliberately casually. Is that who you're sleeping with, he thought.

'Yes,' Sherlock looked up at him, and for a second John wasn't sure which question Sherlock was answering.

None of my business, he told himself as he took another mouthful of coffee. He'd repeated that phrase to himself so often in the last week that it had become something of a mantra any time he thought about Sherlock.

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is taking longer than anticipated to get up, and please don't judge our boys too harshly just yet. Have faith my pretties.

John wasn't aware he'd drifted off until the sound of his mobile woke him. Rubbing at his eyes he fumbled with the buttons, squinting down at the tiny text.

 

_MH to arrive 30. Please advise GL._

 

Pausing for a second before replying, John wondered if he really wanted to know how Mycroft was. If it was bad news...he shook himself, mentally chastising his cowardice and composing a response.

 

_Is he okay? John._

 

It took Anthea almost ten minutes to respond, but which point Greg was starting to wake and John was about to climb the walls. Finally though his phone buzzed and John relaxed.

 

_Yes._

 

_#_

 

Greg was awake and dressed and ready to leave minutes after John gave him the news. When there was a quick click of heels outside, he was already halfway to the door before Anthea came through it. She was immaculate as ever, but her face was pale and slightly drawn as if she hadn't slept much. Greg was looking past her as if expecting Mycroft.

'He's in the car,' Anthea smiled indulgently, 'He's okay.'

'What happened?' John asked her as Greg blinked back tears of relief.

Anthea's expression was carefully neutral, 'He ate something that didn't agree with him.

'Lasting damage?' John asked, slipping easily into doctor mode.

His question was met with a shake of Anthea's head, 'He was reached in time. Although I think my shoes are ruined.'

Without waiting to hear anything else, Greg had set off in search of his husband, Anthea glanced after him with an indulgent smile before nodding to John and Sherlock, her professional demeanour already back in place.

Sherlock and John were left alone in the room, Sherlock already on his feet and ready to go. John looked up at him and was rewarded with a faint smile.

'Well,' John said, reaching for his coat, 'I don't know about you, but I could murder a cup of tea.'

'And we have a crime scene!'

'You know,' John said as he followed Sherlock down the corridor, 'You could try sounding less pleased about that.'

 

#

 

Greg practically fell onto Mycroft as he climbed into the car, shocked at how worn his mate looked, but already feeling better just being close to him. They leaned against each other, not speaking, just breathing deeply, reassured by the beat of each other's heart and the familiar scents.

It took several long minutes of running his hands over Mycroft's face and body to convince Greg that the other man really was there and was fine. Mycroft gave him a soft smile, and put up with Greg's actions until the other man leaned against him, pulling him close until Mycroft's head was resting on his shoulder, and holding him there until they got home.

Anthea must have gone on ahead in another car because the heating was on, and there was tea and sandwiches ready for them, and the woman herself was just about to leave. She waited until the door had closed behind Mycroft and Greg before she headed to the car waiting to take her home.

Greg, still slightly unsteady himself, steered his husband to the living room, pulling him into a tight hug and kissing him once before leaning back, still holding Mycroft's arms.

'No more fieldwork.'

'Gregory...'

But Greg shook his head firmly, 'No. I mean it, Myc. No more.'

Mycroft looked at him, conflicting emotions crossing his face.

'Please,' Greg pleaded, and Mycroft's eyes softened and he nodded. But Greg wasn't satisfied, 'Promise me.'

For a long moment he thought Mycroft wasn't going to do it, but eventually he spoke.

'I promise.'

 

#

 

'Sherlock,' John said awkwardly as they climbed the stairs at 221B an hour after leaving the hospital, 'I..um, I wanted to talk to you about something. It's a bit...awkward. I wanted to mention it before now, but...'

Sherlock looked at John expectantly and John felt himself blush slightly with embarrassment over what he was going to say.

'When...when you _died,'_ he paused, swallowing as the familiar flare of hurt rose in his chest, 'You left me quite a lot of money...'

'Yes,' Sherlock shrugged.

'Well, I just...obviously some of it is...I just wanted to know what you wanted to do about that. How do we go about transferring that back. I can repay the-'

'It's yours,' Sherlock took the stairs two at a time and John struggled to keep up.

'Sherlock!'

But Sherlock was already whirling away towards the kitchen. John hesitated in the living room, unsure whether to follow the other man or not. Instead he took a few seconds to compose himself before trying again, moving towards the kitchen where he stopped just on the threshold, his arms crossed.

'Sherlock,' he said, softly this time, watching Sherlock's back as the man bent over a selection of petri dishes laid out on the table, 'Sherlock. It's important.'

When Sherlock didn't give any indication that he had heard, John stepped into the kitchen and around the table, standing in front of the fridge, looking down at Sherlock.

'Can you look at me?' he asked.

With a dramatic sigh Sherlock lifted his head, pipette still in his hand, his strange eyes suddenly fixed intently on John's.

'The money, Sherlock.'

'What about it?'

John sighed and for a second thought about just letting the subject go, but he knew if he did that now then he would never get around to it.

'I can't keep it.'

'Why not? It's yours.'

'It's yours,' Sherlock started to return his attention to his experiment, but John stepped forward so he was leaning over the table.

'It's-'

'Jonn!' Sherlock slammed the pipette down on the table and pushed his chair back with such force that it toppled over, 'I'm going to-'

'No, Sherlock,' John grabbed hold of the younger man's arm and pulled him back, 'We are going to talk about this.'

Sherlock looked mildly stunned at John's commanding tone, but recovered himself enough to sigh and roll his eyes, 'I left the money to you. It was...in case I didn't come back. I wanted to make sure you were provided for.'

'And then you came back.'

'Yes.'

'You could have donated it to...science or something,' John floundered for a suggestion he thought more worthwhile than helping cover John's rent while he recovered from watching his mate jump off a roof.

'It was a small portion of my inheritance, enough to make sure you survived. I know how fond of sleeping indoors you are.'

'Small...Sherlock, that was more money than I've made in the last five years.'

'Yes.'

'And you're telling me that's a _small_ amount? You mean you were sitting on a bloody fortune all this time and we still lived in _this_ shit hole?'

'Well, it was close to the Tube-'

'You don't take the Tube!' John shouted, and Sherlock looked so affronted that John felt his own lips twitch. He bit back a laugh, 'You are impossible,' he said instead, and let his forehead fall forward so it was resting on Sherlock's chest, his hand still tightly gripping the other man's arm.

'I can assure you, John that I am entirely poss-'

'Shut up,' John said, not moving.

He felt Sherlock's breath against the back of his neck and Sherlock cautiously lowered his own head and wrapped his free arm around John's shoulders. They stood like that for a long time, all thoughts of tea, money and murders forgotten.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments. All the feels are leaving me breathless. Hopefully there will be another chapter (or 2) today. I'm on a roll.

It wasn't until John was turned down the street towards his own flat that he realised he hadn't called or text since he left for work the morning before. He knew there were unread messaged on his phone from her, but in the flurry of activity at the hospital, and then the crime scene and the attempted conversation with Sherlock, he hadn't gotten around to reading them, let alone replying.

Guilt washed over him as he let himself in, silently praying that Mary would still be out, giving him enough time to change and shower the scent of Sherlock away. He hated that he had to do that every time he came home, the scent comforting and familiar on his clothes and skin. But he knew it set Mary on edge, the same way that Sherlock tended to recoil for the first few minutes in John's company until he adjusted to and filtered out Mary's scent on John.

John had spent most of the last few months felling like he was caught in the middle of something there was no way way out of. He loved Mary, and he loved Sherlock, and God knew he wanted them both.

But he couldn't have them both, and the longer things went on as they had been, the more he could feel that he was losing both of them in different ways. Mary was pulling back from him, distant and uncertain, unwilling to be as open as before in the face of John's continued friendship with Sherlock. And Sherlock himself was slipping away, starting to replace John in his life. At least in some aspects of it.

John had thought he would feel happy for him. Knew he _should_ have felt happy for him. But he couldn't shake the sick feeling in his stomach every time he thought about Sherlock with someone else, and he wondered as he opened his front door, if that was how Sherlock felt about John being with Mary.

At the sound of the key in the door, Mary had come running out of the bedroom, her eyes wide with worry.

'Are you okay? What happened?'

John stared at her for a second, slightly confused by her questions.

'Yeah,' he said slowly, 'Of course.'

'You didn't answer my calls or messages,' she said, her voice slightly too high. John knew he should have felt more guilty, but couldn't bring himself to feel much of anything after the twenty four hours he'd just had.

'Was with Greg at hospital,' he murmured, suddenly wanting nothing more than to collapse into bed and sleep.

'Why? Was he hurt?'

'Collapsed at a crime scene.'

'Oh God!'

'No, no. It was something to do with Mycroft...' John struggled to think clearly, Mary's confusion clouding his own thoughts, 'He was hurt and Greg felt it and...we stayed with him.'

Mary's face very clearly said that she knew who John meant by 'we', but she said nothing about it, which only prompted John to carry on talking about him.

'I spoke to Sherlock about the money. Well, tried to anyway,' he admitted.

Mary nodded. The money had been a sore point for a while.

'And?'

'He won't take it.'

'Right.' Mary looked slightly annoyed for someone who was being told they could keep the ridiculous amount of money in their account. But part of John couldn't blame her, after all, _he_ felt uncomfortable about it, and he could only imagine how much harder it was for Mary to know that the money had been provided by her mate's ex-husband. An omega no less.

That had been another sticking point. For both of them.

 

#

 

John first found out about the money Sherlock had left for him several days after the funeral. One of Mycroft's minions had come around with a sheaf of papers for John to sign regarding Sherlock's death, and he'd been in such a daze he hadn't even read them, not caring what they said.

Then he woke up from his sedative fuelled sleep to find Mycroft sitting in John's armchair.

'Good morning,' the elder Holmes was cold, but polite as he explained to John exactly what Sherlock had put in place for him.

John had listened in stunned silence as Mycroft talked about impossible amounts of money and various assets that had been willed to John by his dead mate. Money and assets that John had apparently signed for several days ago.

'I can't accept that-'

'Nonsense,' Mycroft cut him off sharply, 'Sherlock wanted to make sure that, should anything ever happen to him, which, let's face it, was always extremely likely in his line of work, that you should be provided for. And I believe you are subject to a mandatory stay of leave, pending psychological approval to return to work, which will take many months. In the meantime you will need to live, and I'm led to understand that your savings are...meagre.'

John's foggy brain chose that moment to revert to age old, ingrained stereotypes.

'I'm supposed to provide for him.'

'Dr Watson, I trust you are not going to conform to outdated alpha and omega preconceptions. We both know that your relationship with my brother was never conventional or traditional in that sense. Sherlock always had a tendency to do things his own way.'

John had smiled weakly at that, unable to deny it, and Mycroft leaned forward, his face creased in pain and his eyes boring into John's with an honestly that bordered on pleading.

'Let him do this for you.'

With that, Mycroft stood to leave, and it was months before John saw him again.

 

#

 

Like everything else about Sherlock, John tried not to think about the money. When he returned to work he kept a careful check on his income and outgoings, never spending more than he earned so he never ate into the money Sherlock had left him beyond the bare minimum he had used to live on in those first awful months. Eventually he stopped thinking about it at all.

Possibly it would have stayed that way if he hadn't added Mary's name to the account. He and Sherlock had a joint account, even before they started dating or bonded, it had made sense to deal with the bills and day to day expenses of living with someone else. Once Mary moved in with him it had been the next logical step, and two signatures later it was done, and John didn't think about it again. Until the next bank statement came in.

'Jesus Christ!' he'd heard Mary shout from the living room, and he'd hurried from the bathroom, still wet from the shower to see what had caused the cry.

Mary was standing by the open front door, a handful of post scattered on the floor at her feet, and one letter open in her hand. John was a few feet away when he spotted the familiar logo of his bank and he stopped still.

'Oh,' he said flatly.

Mary looked at him, her hands shaking slightly, 'Oh? Is...this is...John?'

John guided her to a chair and carefully took the statement out of her hands, not looking at before he folded it and put it back in it's envelope.

'It's not my money,' he said, his voice low, 'It was left to me.'

'By...your...'

'By S-Sherlock,' John forced, and then coughed, 'Yes.'

There was silence in the small room until Mary spoke, clearly trying to keep her voice light.

'You could have warned me,' she said, attempting a small laugh, 'I thought you'd been on some crime spree I didn't know about.' she took a deep breath, 'That's a lot of money. We could-'

'No!' John cut her off more sharply than he intended, and Mary jerked away from him in shock.

'We don't touch that money,' he said, standing up.

'I just-'

'Ever.' John said, clenching his jaw. Before Mary could say anything else, John walked to the kitchen where he put the statement into the same drawer he kept all the other, unopened, statements in before retreating back to the bathroom where he stood clenching the sink until he stopped shaking, the cutting loss of Sherlock once again slashing through him with a savageness that left him weak and crying.

It wasn't mentioned again until after Sherlock came back from the dead.

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't going to write this chapter, but it came into my head last night and I realised it was really needed. It's slighty angsty fluffy Mystrade. I make no apologies.

Mycroft looked across at the sleeping man laying beside him and thought about all that had happened in the last few days, and how close he had come to never seeing Gregory again. He still wasn't able to relax and allow himself to believe that he was home and they were both safe. If it hadn't been for Anthea's quick thinking, then Mycroft wouldn't have made it as far as hospital, let alone made it back to London and into bed beside the one person he loved most.

It was his own fault. He knew he shouldn't trust his hosts, but he had been relaxed and content and the conversation was pleasant, decisions were made and the day had been productive. He'd lifted his wine glass without thinking.

Twenty minutes later Anthea had her fingers down his throat, her other hand holding him by the hair as he vomited the contents of his stomach across the floor of the tasteful bathroom.

He was distantly aware of voices shouting, and at one stage shots being fired, but all he had been able to focus on in that moment was the taste of bile in his mouth, the pain across his scalp and chant of _GregoryGregoryGregory_ that was going through his mind.

The whole fiasco would have sparked a massive diplomatic incident, had Mycroft and his team 'been there.' As it was, there was no evidence of travel, no records, and no one seemed to know who shot three of the hosting party.

He had a vague notion that he owed Anthea a pair of shoes.

 

#

 

Greg opened his eyes to see Mycroft watching him and he smiled, putting out his arm in invitation for Mycroft to move closer, gently touching the other man's face, tracing his fingers over Mycroft's cheek and then around to the back of his neck, pulling him forward so he could kiss him, then they rested their foreheads together and Greg whispered to his husband.

'Go to sleep.'

Mycroft responded by kissing him again and then rolling over away from Greg, who couldn't resist the soft smile that played across his face, and he wrapped himself around Mycroft, pulling him close.

It was an act of trust that touched Greg every time. Alphas didn't do that, didn't turn their back to someone. That was a sign of weakness, something that was programmed in at a base level. But over the last few months Mycroft had started to turn his back to Greg, didn't flinch away if Greg came up behind him, even leaning into him, or pulling him closer. And there had been that one night when Mycroft had offered himself to Greg, allowed Greg to take him from behind. The ultimate act of submission. The most that Mycroft could ever give him to show how he felt about him, how he trusted him.

Greg had had other people like that before, but never an alpha. He'd never thought he would have Mycroft like that, although he'd wanted to. Ever since, even just thinking about it left him painfully hard.

He pressed his face against Mycroft's shoulder, rubbing his cheek against him, trailing his scent across Mycroft's neck and shoulders, pressing closer, wanting Mycroft to smell of him, wanted him to carry that scent with him through the night and the next day.

In response Mycroft tilted his neck, allowing Greg to run his cheek up the pale skin there before kissing gently below Mycroft's ear, his lips barely touching the skin.

Closing his eyes, he leaned into Mycroft, his arm around him, hand splayed protectively across his chest.

'I love you, Mycroft,' he whispered, 'I love you so much.'

 

#

 

Mycroft leaned into Gregory, tilting his neck allowing Gregory to run his cheek and lips up his neck, enjoying the wash of Gregory's scent against his skin. He closed his eyes, concentrating only on the feel of Gregory behind him, his chest comforting against Mycroft's back, and his arm holding Mycroft secure against him. Safe.

That was how Gregory made him feel, safe. For the first time in his life Mycroft had something, someone that made him feel that way. Someone that he didn't have to pretend with, that he could just relax against and know that he was protected.

Gregory tightened his grip on Mycroft, his palm in the middle of his chest. Mycroft covered it with his, running his thumb across the back of Gregory's hand in slow circles, his other hand reached back down Gregory's thigh, pulling his legs closer, tucking them in behind Mycroft's own, their feet tangled together.

A soft kiss was pressed against his neck, and then Gregory rested his head against Mycroft's shoulder.

'I love you, Mycroft,' he whispered, 'I love you so much.'

Gregory let out a shuddery breath, and there was a warm against Mycroft's shoulder that ran across his skin. It took him a moment to realise that Gregory was crying, and he lifted Gregory's hand from his chest, threading his fingers through the other man's, lifting the hand to his lips and pressing a soft kiss against it before pulling it tighter around him, pressing further back against Gregory, trying to show him how he felt, how much he meant. Then he said something he'd never said before, never thought he'd say, something he'd tried to make clear with his actions. For the first time in his life he wanted to say it. _Needed_ to say it. Needed to make it clear to Gregory. Make him understand.

Mycroft closed his eyes and breathed in Gregory's scent.

'I love you, too.'

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, um...yeah....sex.

For the next couple of weeks John tried to devote more time to Mary, who had been putting on a brave face for so long it was becoming hard to tell when she was really upset. As a result he didn't see much of Sherlock, and only met up with Greg once for a pint after work, most of which was spent listening to Greg rant about Sherlock.

'You should go and see him,' Greg said suddenly, not looking at John.

John was immediately suspicious, 'You're usually telling to stay away from him.'

'Yeah, well...' Greg shifted slightly in his seat, 'He's been a bit more annoying than usual, and he's refused to come out to three different crime scenes. One of them was at _least_ a seven.'

'Was that the one with the heads?'

Greg nodded grimly.

'Wow,' John sat back in his seat, 'I'd have thought that would be right up his street. You know how he feels about severed body parts.'

'Oh, and while we're on that topic,' Greg pointed to John with his glass, 'If he can return Mr Millar's kidney to the morgue in the same state he found it then we'll say no more about it.'

'How likely do you think that it?' John was aware that if Sherlock had hold of a kidney then it was likely to be in no fit state to return to anywhere.

'What exactly does he do with the bits he takes home?'

'He eventually returns most of them, although he was suggesting at one stage that we get a dog, so...'

'Probably best you did all the cooking.'

And there it was again, that strange little pull when someone talked so casually about his previous life. It was as if nothing traumatic had happened in the in-between years. Sometimes people, Greg especially, spoke like John and Sherlock had just gradually drifted apart. Maybe that was the better way. Or maybe not. John didn't know any more.

'I'll talk to him,' he promised.

 

#

 

That was how John found himself climbing the stairs of 221B where the door was, predictably, open.

'You should lock that,' John said as he walked into the living room, 'All sorts of strange men could let themselves in.'

Sherlock didn't glance up from his microscope, 'I'm counting on it.'

John took a surreptitious look around the flat, which was a little tidier than normal, with no strange chemical aromas.

'Busy?' John asked, looking for somewhere to sit down. With his armchair gone the room felt strange, and it somehow seemed wrong to sit in Sherlock's chair.

'Not particularly. Tea?'

'Yeah, sure.' John stood there for a few moments before he realised that Sherlock expected _him_ to make it. He sighed and went to the kitchen to fill the kettle, 'Some things never change.'

'Did you say something?'

'Just wondered what you were working on.'

'I'm comparing size of sperm in semen.'

'Lovely,' John glanced at the table and spotted a familiar blue plastic tub that was open and apparently full of samples.

He frowned, 'Sherlock...' he said very slowly, 'Is that the same tub that has been at the back of the freezer for the last three years?'

'If I say yes how likely is it that you will shout?'

'I'd say it's a massive probability,' John sighed. He had not missed this side of things. 'I kept food beside that, Sherlock.'

'It's fine, it's mostly yours anyway.'

John almost dropped the mugs he was lifting out of the cupboard, 'Oh my God! Sherlock!'

He stalked across to where Sherlock was sitting and looked down at the collection of samples and slides, each neatly labelled in blue ink. He took in the sheer number, which only raised more questions.

'Sherlock, if you were doing that while I was sleeping-'

'Of course not, John,' Sherlock drawled, removing one slide and replacing it with another, 'That would be inappropriate.'

'So, would you like to explain to me how _exactly_ you ended up with so many samples of my semen in a tub in the freezer?'

'I collected it when we had sex.'

'No, I'd have noticed if you were bagging stuff up.'

'Well, obviously not _every_ time, and I didn't necessarily collect it from you. I would-'

'Actually, I don't want to know,' John went back to pour the hot water into the teapot, 'It's weird enough that you collected your husband's sperm without needing to hear the details.'

'Not my husband.'

The only sound in the flat was the soft click as Sherlock changed the slide again. John stood completely still behind him, glad he hadn't lifted the mugs of tea yet.

'What?' John's voice was choked, his throat suddenly too tight.

At that Sherlock turned around slightly, 'Well it's true, you're not my husband, are you? Tea ready?'

John stared down at Sherlock, feeling like someone had kicked his legs from underneath him. What Sherlock said was true, and the other man's voice was so casual, almost _bored_ of the subject, his face impassive with just the slightest hint of disdain. But that's not what he was _feeling._ And John knew, because he was feeling it too, Sherlock's emotions coursing through him almost as if they were his own.

Sherlock went to turn back to his microscope, and something inside John broke. He surged forward and grabbed the other man by the shoulders, forcing him to face John, before John bent down and kissed him.

It wasn't the gentle loving kiss that a look like that deserved, instead it was fierce and angry and full of passion and regret. It was everything John had wanted to feel again since the moment Sherlock stepped off that roof. He hadn't even kissed him that day. He'd been so angry at him that he'd stormed off and left him behind, and he didn't see him again until...

John's hand moved to Sherlock's hair, where his fingers tightened their grip, tilting Sherlock's head back further, kissing him until neither of them could breathe

Sherlock's were on his chest, shoving him backwards slightly, and John staggered, dazed at the sudden loss of contact. Sherlock was on his feet then, looking across at John, body tensed as if poised for flight. John could do nothing but stare at him, knowing his own longing was written plainly across his face. Sherlock could obviously see it too. His skin was flushed, breathing shallow and his aqua eyes were dark with lust.

There was a second, the briefest of seconds, where they could walk away. Sherlock could go back to his experiment and John could pour the tea and they would make small talk about recent cases and pretend that everything was normal.

But that's all it would be, a pretence.

Sherlock seemed to be waiting for something, and when John's eyes met his it was apparently the right answer. Crashing together they were already clawing at each other's clothes before theirs lips even met. John had one hand in Sherlock's hair, and the other slid under the fabric of his shirt, is fingers tracing Sherlock's hip bone, pulling him closer. Sherlock's hands were already at John's waist band, and John gasped when those long, cool fingers closed around his cock. He could practically _feel_ the smirk on Sherlock's face, and that was all it took to push the other man until he was resting against the table. Wrestling his belt off, John didn't bother undoing all the buttons, he just yanked Sherlock's trousers down hard, a little burst of satisfaction from the hiss Sherlock made as the fabric burned against his skin.

There was not patience there, no finesse, just a desperate need to touch and be touched. They were slightly out of sync with each other, and their hands bumped against each other, but neither of them cared. John wished, though, that they had taken the time to undress, he so desperately wanted to feel Sherlock's skin against his, wanted to be able to just breathe the smell of him.

As they moved together, breath nothing more than gasps between them, John's lips moved from Sherlock's mouth to his neck, biting gently down the pale column until his teeth grazed over the mark he'd put there years before. He kissed the raised scars there and nipped at the skin around it, but when he bit the mark itself Sherlock shuddered and his own teeth sank in hard to the skin just below John's collar bone. The sting of pain shot through him, a forgotten feeling, hot and fierce, and he was suddenly coming with cry he couldn't hold back.

It was only seconds before he felt Sherlock pulse in his hand followed by the warmth of his ejaculate as it hit John's stomach where his shirt had ridden up. Sherlock hadn't made a sound, and was standing very still, his forehead pressed against John's shoulder.

John held him tightly, not caring that he was smearing cum up the back of Sherlock's shirt.

'Sherlock?' he said softly.

At the sound of John's voice, Sherlock snapped his head up, stepping away from John. He did up his trousers as he moved across the kitchen to clean his hands on a teatowel that John made a mental note to bin. Then, to John's surprise, he lifted his mug of tea and returned to his seat in front of his microscope as if nothing had happened.

'Sherlock?' John tried again, desperately trying to do up his own jeans with shaking fingers, 'Sher-'

'I think you should probably leave,' Sherlock said.

'But-'

'Mary will be wondering where you are.'

John's blood ran cold and for a second he thought he was going to be sick in the sink. Instead he gripped the edge of the counter until he felt that he could move without his legs giving way. The guilt and shock of what he had just done threatened to fell him at any second, and the disgust made his stomach churn violently. When he did finally move, it was with a jerky, staggered gate. Sherlock didn't look up at him as he passed, but the feeling coming from him was one of coldness and anger.

It took John two goes to get the door open properly, and it wasn't until he was going through it that Sherlock spoke again.

'Thanks for the tea.'

John was crying before he reached the bottom of the stairs.

 


	17. Chapter 17

When Mycroft and Gregory first started dating they tended to clash and bounce off each other in the best, and worst, possible ways. At that stage it didn't matter. When it was good it was amazing, and when it was bad...well, it wasn't serious, was it? An argument didn't matter.

But then it did get serious, and arguments started to have more significance. Then they weren't talking at all, or perhaps it really was just a pause in one long argument, Mycroft really wasn't sure any more. All he knew was that it was stupid and he would regret it for the rest of his life.

After that had come a point where every argument or disagreement set Mycroft on edge. So fragile was their relationship as they tried to work it out, that he was terrified of anything that would upset the delicate balance and cause Gregory to leave.

He'd thought for certain that it was over the night he asked Gregory to cover up an assassination. The anger and hurt in his eyes had rocked Mycroft to the core, and when he lay in bed and listened to Gregory pack clothes, he _knew_ that was it.

He spent the next day only half aware of the disappointed looks Anthea was shooting his way, or the fact that very little seemed to cross his desk. He focused as best he could, and made a show of looking proficient and together. He barely noticed as Anthea flitted in and out of the building on various errands, and when his lunch was delivered it was left, untouched, at the side of his desk and was still there when Mycroft finally left for the night.

He had not wanted to go home at all. Although he had happily lived alone in the large house for many years, he found he didn't want to go home with the knowledge that Gregory would not be there. He didn't want to go home and find that the other man had already been and packed his belongs again.

Knowing he would have to face it at some stage, but not able to bear it right then, knowing Gregory would leave but not wanting the confirmation just yet, Mycroft had retreated to the living room, where he sat and stared blankly at pages of text, all the while the chant in his head telling him _He's not coming back. He's not coming back. He's not coming back._

But then he came back, dishevelled, exhausted, unshaven and mildly disapproving to see Mycroft still awake and working. He'd dragged him to bed, literally, and forced him to try and get some sleep. But Mycroft had lain away for a long time watching the rise and fall of Gregory's chest and willing himself to stay awake so he would not wake in the morning to an empty bed, if Gregory decided to leave.

Even though Gregory was there, and affirmed that he was not going to leave, the doubt sat heavy in Mycroft's stomach for days afterwards. The slightly frosty atmosphere between them as a result of that particular case and it's fallout had not helped to reassure Mycroft. But each day Gregory was there, and although that worry never really went away, it eased slightly.

Mycroft was terrified by his feeling towards Gregory, how invested he was in the other man. Mycroft had never felt that way before, never had reason to care about someone like that, never had reason to want someone else to care about him like that.

In the past Mycroft had always kept his private life just that. Not only did it open him up to unbearable scrutiny, but it also put another person in every potential firing line. Quite aside from that, he had never had a relationship where he had felt inclined to broadcast it. But then he'd found himself with his arm around Gregory in a room full of his peers, proudly showing him off in the same way that his colleagues and counterparts showed off their suitable and submissive omegas. There had been curious glances, some of them unpleasant, and Mycroft had wondered briefly whether he was doing the right thing. He didn't want to make Gregory uncomfortable, but at the same time, he'd felt real thrill at being able to present Gregory as his mate and watch the envy in the eyes of those they spoke to as they took in the handsome alpha at Mycroft's side. His alpha. His Gregory.

 

#

 

Sherlock Holmes had never cared what people thought about him, or what people thought about anything. People, he had found, generally weren't intelligent enough for their opinions to have merits which may influence the outcome, so he tended to just tune them out.

Then along came John Watson.

For the first time in his life Sherlock actually wanted someone to think well about him. He didn't want John to think he was a freak, or dangerous. He wanted John to like him. Wanted John to think he was a good person. Wanted John to want him.

The day after they met, the day John came to look at the flat, he cast a critical eye around and immediately Sherlock had been filled with worry that the man might be put off, and he had leapt forward and started to shuffle things around in a hopeless attempt to tidy up.

That same night John had told him he was amazing, extraordinary. He made John laugh without trying, and that was unexpected and sent a rush of warmth to his stomach that he had never felt before.

He liked to impress John. He liked the way John would watch him, sometimes with annoyance, sometimes accompanied by a littering of swear words, or a stern set to his mouth and jaw. John might curse at him, call him names, threaten him at times, but he always watched. Always waited for the big reveal. And Sherlock lived for those moments, dancing around crime scenes, or clients or TV murder mysteries, letting John have his turn first, listening, curious, but always waiting for his chance to show John how clever he was. How _amazing_.

Then John did something unexpected. Not only had he told the Sherlock he thought he was brilliant, but he then went and told the _whole world_ too.

Never had Sherlock had someone who thought of him like that, not only thought it, but felt compelled to share those thoughts with everyone else. Sherlock realised from the day he met John Watson that he needed to do whatever he could to keep him.

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tiny little chapter update, but really, i think it says all it needs to.

John didn't remember the walk home, how long it took, or the looks he got from strangers as he staggered, pale faced and confused along the streets.

What had he done?

He closed his eyes in shame as he remembered how, for one brief, perfect moment he was with Sherlock and everything was just as it was supposed to be. It was all going to be okay.

Suddenly he was at his door, and he hesitated feeling hot and cold at once, nausea flooding his stomach and his heart beating far too fast. He didn't want to go up there. He didn't want to face Mary, didn't want to see the hurt on her face as her heart broke. But he had to.

And she was going to know the moment she laid eyes on him. She was going to know before John even entered the flat. She'd be able to smell it, smell Sherlock, smell sex. John hadn't even had a chance to clean himself up, the skin on his hands and stomach was itchy, the drying semen sticking his clothes to his skin.

John felt disgusted.

He climbed the stairs and opened the door slowly. There was no sign of Mary, and he moved through the flat towards the bathroom. Ahead of him the bedroom door opened and Mary walked out, fastening the back of an earring as she walked. She had her head down and didn't see John at first, and he watched her, dizzy with fear, as he waited for her to see him. There was a twitch as she caught his scent, just as he knew she would. And then her head jerked up and she saw him.

 

#

 

John stood in the bathroom, looking at himself in the mirror. The evidence was all over his body. Flakes of cum drying on his skin and shirt, scratches on the skin at his waist and a deep purple mark where Sherlock had bitten down on the skin at his collarbone.

Everything smelled like Sherlock. His skin and his clothes were heavy with the other man's unmistakable scent, and John felt ashamed of himself when he pressed his shirt to his face and breathed in the heady aroma. He'd spent two whole years of his life thinking he would never smell that again, and now it was the very thing that he wished he couldn't smell.

He dropped the shirt on the floor and, heart contracting painfully, finished undressing and climbed into the shower. The water was too hot, far too hot, and it burned his skin, but John didn't feel it. He scrubbed his body until his arms ached, and then stood still under the water, letting it run over him as he braced himself against the wall and cried.

 

#

 

Mary didn't move for the longest time, and John couldn't will himself to speak. She barely reacted at all, just looked at him until, eventually, she took a deep, shuddery breath, and walked past him and out the door, her gaze lowered and her steps a little unsteady.

John stayed where he was, hands balled at his sides, shoulders rounded in shame, and as she passed him, he closed his eyes, her feelings too much on top of his own.

She didn't slam the door. She just let it close behind her with a soft click. And that was somehow so much worse.

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mycroft is flattered, Sherlock is shattered and Greg gets splattered.

Mycroft arrived back at his office after his afternoon meeting to find the building in a mild state of disarray, an army of denim clad men looking decidedly stressed were marching through the foyer, and there were raised voices coming from one of the offices. Mycroft ignored it as not being his problem. That was, until he spotted Anthea striding down the hallway, Blackberry in one hand and her brow creased in anger.

'Shall I assume you have something to do with the chaos, my dear?' Mycroft was the only person in the world she allowed to call her that, something that endlessly amused Gregory who liked to make comments about sexual harassment in the work place.

Anthea lowered her phone, tilting her head to one side and giving him a knowing look, 'The ladies washroom is being redecorated.'

'And this is a...bad thing?'

'It is if you are a prude who objects to sharing the men's room for the day.'

Mycroft considered this, 'That could, of course, have been arranged for a weekend?'

There was the unmistakable hint of a smirk on Anthea's face, 'Yes. It could have.'

She raised her phone once more and set off back down the hallway in the direction of shouting voices.

Once in his office, Mycroft took a quick glance at the papers and memos Anthea had left out for him. At the top of the pile there was a bright yellow post-it note, Mycroft cringe at the colour, with two words written on it that ruined Mycroft's afternoon.

 

_Sherlock. John._

 

Mycroft reached for his phone.

 

#

 

'Gregory, are you busy?'

Greg looked out at the chaos in his own office. Sally was yelling at Dimmock who had managed to forward a virus to every computer on the floor, and Greg was faced with thirty monitors displaying a selection of dancing cartoon penises.

'Not really.'

'Good,' Mycroft said, 'I need you to go and check on Sherlock.'

'What's he done?'

Mycroft hestiated, 'Dr Watson was seen leaving Baker Street yesterday in a state of...well, there isn't any way to say it delicately.'

Greg groaned, this was definitely _not_ something he wanted to be dealing with today. He'd much prefer the dancing penises.

'Mycroft....'

'I would go myself, but I fear that Anthea is spear heading some sort of insurrection over bathroom fixtures.'

Greg decided that he'd rather not know.

'Alright,' he sighed, 'Is Sherlock still at the flat?'

'Why would I know-'

'Mycroft!'

'Yes.'

Greg was already on his feet and heading for the door, 'You really need to turn those cameras off.'

'But then I wouldn't have this view of your rather magnificent posterior.'

Without looking around at the CCTV camera that was _supposed_ to be an a closed feed, Greg discreetly flipped up the back of his jacket. He was rewarded with a soft laugh on the other end of the line.

'I'll let you know what happens,' Greg said, 'I'll be late home tonight, remember?'

'As shall I. Although I'd much rather be chasing criminals than dining with politicians,' he hissed the word with more venom than Greg was used to.

'No more fieldwork for you, you promised!' Greg reminded.

'Yes, sir,' Mycroft mocked and hung up.

Greg was still smiling when he reached the car.

 

#

 

That smile was abruptly wiped off his face when he reached Baker Street. Sherlock was laying naked on the sofa, his head hanging over the edge and his eyes closed. He was very still and paler than normal, his eyes half open and unfocused.

Greg lurched forward to check for a pulse, and it wasn't until he felt the slow beat under his fingers that he got angry.

'You bastard!' he shouted at the prone man.

Greg called for an ambulance and went to Sherlock's room to fetch a blanket. It wasn't the first time he'd found the man in that state.

 

#

 

Working dinners were always tedious affairs, rife with self importance and idiocy. Mycroft tried to avoid them unless absolutely necessary. He would much rather be at home waiting for Gregory than discussing trade sanctions over the fish course with senior members of the World Trade Organisation. Technically Mycroft was only there in an observatory role, but as often happened, he found himself drawn into the conversations around him by acquaintances who, like Gregory, seemed to share the opinion that he _actually_ ran the _whole_ country.

He was currently discussing import tax with the wife of one of the The Trade Negotiations Committee delegation when she seemed to realise something was missing.

'Darling Gregory not with you?'

Mycroft felt himself colour slightly at the reference to his husband, but found himself strangely pleased that Gregory had made such an impression on a woman he had spoken to once many months ago at another event.

'Unfortunately he had to work.'

'What's this now?' her husband leaned over to join the conversation.

'I was just asking Mycroft about that charming husband of his.'

'Ah yes,' the man gave Mycroft a look of approval, 'What was it he does again?'

'He's a Detective Inspector for the Metropolitan Police,' Mycroft felt slightly shy but also proud to answer questions about Gregory. It was a strange feeling and one he would need to examine more closely later.

'Excuse me, sir,' one of the staff appeared at Mycroft's side, 'There's a gentleman on the telephone for you.'

Mycroft had a sudden, sinking feeling as he followed the man to the private study where he could take the call.

 

#

 

'They're going to keep him in overnight,' Gregory said, looking sad and tired and angry all at once.

Mycroft nodded, not sure if he wanted to shout or cry. Instead he took a deep breath and let himself slip back into his professional cocoon. He nodded sharply, and glanced past Gregory to the door to Sherlock's room.

'How is he?'

'Well,' Greg scrubbed a hand through his hair, 'We've had blissed out and we've had angry and now we are on twitchy and fucking annoying.' he looked at Mycroft, and Mycroft knew what was coming next even before Greg spoke.

'I can't cover this up, Myc. They've already called it in. Drugs come under Specialist Crime. I can't-' Gregory broke off, his voice cracking. His eyes were red as if he'd been rubbing at them and it had been a long time since Mycroft had seen him so drained, 'He'll be charged this time. He's too much history, too many warnings...'

There was nothing else for Mycroft to do but nod again. He knew that what Gregory was saying was right, and fair. Sherlock had had so many chances over the years. He couldn't always have someone cover for him.

'Gregory,' Mycroft said, looking at his mate's clothing, 'What is that on your shirt?'

Plucking at the fabric of his shirt and jacket which were liberally coated with white splatters.

'I have idea. Sherlock freaked out a bit when we tried to get him into the ambulance and he started throwing things at me. I brought it with me to get it checked out just in case it's toxic or something...' Gregory trailed off, indicating a blue plastic container sitting on one of the seats. Then he sighed.

'We're going to have to put him in a programme this time, Myc.'

'Yes.'

'And we're going to have to do something about John.'

That was something Mycroft already knew.

'Yes.'

 

 


	20. Chapter 20

It had been four days since John had returned to the flat after having sex with Sherlock, but he had no concept of the time any more. He barely moved from his armchair, staring blankly at the TV, or, when he couldn't take any more crappy telly, he just sat and stared at the wall, drowning in complete nothingness.

For days he hadn't felt anything at all. Not Sherlock, not Mary. Not even his own emotions. There was just...nothing.

It was a familiar feeling, one he'd struggled through on his return from Afghanistan, when everything he cared about, everything he was, had suddenly gone, swept away from under him. This time, however, it was his own fault.

Greg had tried calling him seven times, but, thankfully, he had so far refrained from coming over.

John had sent a total of two texts. One to Mary and one to Sherlock. They both said the same thing.

 

_#_

 

_I'm sorry._

 

_#_

 

Neither of them replied

 

_#_

 

Mycroft was furious, his face a dark red and his eyes narrowed to dark slits.

'This is utterly humiliating, Gregory.'

Greg rolled his sleeve back down and buttoned up his cuff.

'Blame your fucking brother!' he snarled.

Turning his face away from the nurse as she inserted the needle in his arm, Mycroft muttered something in what might have been German. Greg just grit his teeth and tried to resist the urge to storm back to Sherlock's room and punch the bastard in the face.

Molly had called him half an hour ago, deeply apologetic, to tell him what was in the blue container.

'I'm sorry, I;d have checked it sooner byt it's just we had three bad traffic accidents this week, and then-'

'It's fine,' Greg said tightly and hung up.

He made the necessary arrangements and then called Mycroft, who had been less than impressed at the prospect of a visit to the GUM clinic.

'I don't understand why we have to go at all.'

'Well,' Greg said, shuddering at the memory, 'Let's just say it didn't all land on my shirt.'

Mycroft recoiled, 'And I have to go why?'

'Because you can't keep your hands to yourself when your angry, and you've been angry _a lot_ this week.'

And that was how Greg found himself steering Mycroft down to the clinic for his first emergency STD test.

While Mycroft was finishing up, and doing whatever it was he did to keep his medical records private, Greg went outside to check his messages. There was still nothing from John, and Greg was starting to get annoyed. He opened a new message to Anthea.

 

_John? - G_

 

_#_

 

_home._

 

_#_

 

_Watched? - G_

 

_#_

 

_Of course._

 

_#_

 

Greg could picture Anthea rolling her eyes, and he smiled despite the situation he was in. Before he could ask anything else, Anthea sent him another message.

 

_MH?_

 

_#_

 

Glancing behind him to make sure Mycroft couldn't see, Greg quickly typed out a message.

 

_In danger of becoming an agelast. - G_

 

_#_

 

_:(_

 

_#_

 

Greg laughed out loud, unable to help himself.

'What's so funny?' Mycroft came out of the room looking ready to finally push the Big Red Button.

Greg showed him Anthea's last message.

'I don't understand,' Mycroft shook his head.

'It's a frowny face.'

Mycroft looked blank.

Tipping the phone to the side Greg tried to explain, 'See, it's eyes and a sad mouth.'

'And why is that funny?'

Greg shrugged, slipping the phone into his pocket, 'I didn't think Anthea was the type.'

'Type of what?' Mycroft frowned.

'Just...ah, I dunno. Forget it. I just thought it was funny.'

Greg set off down the corridor, unaware of the look on Mycroft's face as he trailed after him.

 

#

 

There were times when Greg was grateful that Mycroft had an aversion to driving, but climbing inside the luxurious black sedan with it's uniformed driver and it's heated seats usually made Greg feel a bit of a fraud. _Especially_ when he was being dropped off or collected from work. There had been comments in the office. Nothing spiteful, just good natured ribbing, and while he bore it with what passed for a smile, Greg had long ago gotten sick of the remarks about his 'fancy man' or how he had 'done well' for himself. He could only be thankful that his staff at least had the sense, or self preservation, to not say those things in front of Mycroft.

Sometimes though, he was very glad for those cars. Like when he staggered out of the pub in the early hours of the morning, or when he was too hung over to drive, or injured, or, on some very memorable occasions, having Mycroft all to himself in a small, dark space and feeling especially aroused.

This was not one of those car journeys.

They sat on opposite seats, both lost in their own train of thought. Every so often Greg pulled his phone out on the off chance that John had finally text him back. But his inbox remained resolutely empty. He rested his head back against the seat and watched the grey streets.

'What are we going to do, Myc?'

Mycroft took a deep breath, 'What options are available?'

'I don't know. But this can't go on. He's been clean for so long, I can't watch him do that to himself again.'

'Perhaps if Mrs Watson was no longer in the picture...?'

Greg slowly turned his head to look at his husband, eyebrows raised.

'You can't kill Mary.'

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, 'I wasn't planning on killing her.'

'Good.' Greg turned back to the window.

Letting out a little huff of annoyance, Mycroft crossed his legs and leaned back, 'I'm not allowed to do fieldwork any more.'

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> agelast - one who never laughs.


	21. Chapter 21

As the doctor went back into Sherlock's room, Greg stood beside Mycroft, his arms folded across his chest.

'Did you know he was using again?'

He didn't need to be looking at Mycroft to know the way the man closed his eyes, dipping his head slightly, 'I suspected.'

'When?'

'While he was...away. His communications became more erratic, and reports of his behaviour...I thought he was clean again.'

'You've missed it before.'

'Yes.'

Greg was flooded with his own guilt. The fresh track marks on Sherlock's arms and feet were undeniable. Sherlock had not only been using since his return, he'd been using heavily.

'How did we not see it, Myc?' Greg asked quietly, 'We've been through all this with him before, so _how?'_

Mycroft shook his head in a gesture of defeat, 'Sherlock is very good at hiding things.'

'We still should have noticed something.' He didn't add that they had both relied on John Watson's returned presence in Sherlock's life to safeguard his wellbeing, just as he had before Sherlock jumped.

Both men had seen Sherlock through withdrawl before, and as they witnessed the agitated young man shaking on the bed, crying from the pain coursing through his body, they both experienced the sickeningly familiar feelings of helplessness, anger and worry.

'I assume you have informed Dr Watson?'

'Tried to. He's not answering calls.'

Mycroft nodded, his mind clearly focused primarily on something else, 'I wonder if you would be so good as to go and fetch him?'

Greg looked at Mycroft carefully, taking in the man's expression, his guarded eyes that were firmly fixed ahead of him. He nodded very slowly and, 'Of course.'

 

#

 

'I can't _think!'_ Sherlock tried once again to throw himself up off the bed, but his limbs were weak and shaking and he fell back, clutching at his stomach, 'It won't stop!'

Mycroft stood to one side, watching his younger brother writhe in agony, whimpering and drenched in sweat, furious with him, but wishing he could do something that would help make Sherlock's withdrawal and detox easier for him.

Sherlock hadn't slept for days, and was refusing all food brought to him. Neither of these were unusual for the younger Holmes, and in hindsight Mycroft could see how Sherlock's addiction had been staring them all in the face for years. He was too thin, always restless, agitated and easy to irritate, and on those rare occasions when he wasn't, he slipped into a dark depression that he wouldn't emerge from for days or weeks at a time.

All the symptoms where there. All the signs written clearly in every action, word and gesture. Mycroft's mind thought back over years and years of what he now realised was a severe and crippling addiction that Mycroft had only noticed on occasion, and reacted in what was clearly an ineffectual way.

He'd known about the drugs. He'd had suspicions and then reports. But what was now clear was that he'd only known about those occassions when Sherlock's addiction had spiralled so out of control that he was no longer able, or willing to hide it. Mycroft wasn't a person given to reminiscing on the past, but forced to confront the issue, he looked back and could see exactly when Sherlock's problem started, and Mycroft blamed himself for not seeing it.

Seven years was hardly any distance at all as adult, but as children it had been a whole lifetime of a difference. Mycroft was already out in the world, working his way rapidly through the government ranks while Sherlock was still at school, coping with puberty and his inability to relate to other children his age. Mycroft had simply been too caught up in his own life to see what was happening to his sunny, whirlwind of a baby brother.

Hormones.

Mycroft's stomach clenched as he remembered how he'd put it down to puberty and teenage angst, the change that came over Sherlock. The way the boy alternately lashed out and withdrew into himself. He'd grow out of it eventually.

But he hadn't. Not at all. And Mycroft hadn't noticed that Sherlock had grown into an adult without him noticing. An adult who clearly struggled with daily life and interactions with others, who struggled with his own mind and had continued to seek out the only thing that had helped him cope with it. Mycroft wondered how impossible to bear life must have been for Sherlock that a few hours of mindless bliss was worth every withdrawal, every come down.

Mycroft hadn't noticed when Sherlock stopped being happy, but he could pinpoint the very moment when Sherlock started to smile again, when Sherlock's laughter wasn't cruel or forced, when he started to interact with the world around him, albeit cautiously and under the facade of indifference and contempt, when he started letting people in.

Sherlock began crying out again and Mycroft could only move closer, letting Sherlock know he was there.

'Mycroft please,' he begged, looking up at his brother, his aqua eyes red rimmed and wet with tears, 'Please make it stop. It's...I can't...I want... _think_ and I can't,' Sherlock rolled onto his side, curled into a shivering ball, his skin drenched with sweat, 'I need...I-!' he broke off in a choked sob.

Mycroft went cold, and he reached out and pulled the blanket over his brother again. He replayed the scene an hour later when he was standing outside the room with Gregory.

'I assume you have informed Dr Watson?'

'Tried to. He's not answering calls.' Greg was watching him, he could feel his gaze, and the weight of his presence was the only thing that was keeping Mycroft calm at that moment, and it was that knowledge that made Mycroft ask his next question.

'I wonder if you would be so good as to go and fetch him?'

 

#

 

To Greg's surprise, John opened the door within seconds of him knocking. The smaller man was wide eyed and hopeful, but his face fell as soon as he saw it was Greg.

Greg took in John's rumpled, unshaven appearance. His eyes were dark, the bags under them more evident than normal, and the lines around his mouth deep. Greg had seen John look bad before, he thought he would never see him look the way he had in the weeks after Sherlock died, but Greg was unprepared to see John as he was right then. Sweat beaded on his brow and he was swaying slightly where he stood, clearly exhausted, but fidgeting, something John never did.

He looked like...Sherlock.

Realisation washed over Greg and he automatically reached forward pulling John into a tight embrace, as much to support him as to reassure him.

'Come on,' Greg said, pulling the door shut and helping John down the stairs, 'You need him as much he needs you right now.'

 

#

 

Sherlock couldn't hold still, his whole body was shaking violently and he was crying out, a constant stream of nonsense, some of it in English, some Latin, sometime hybrids of other languages, French, German. Poems, formulas, Biblical verse and random facts tumbled over words and dates and names in a frantic rush that made no sense.

Suddenly Sherlock went still, his eyes closed. After a second that felt like years, he opened them again.

'John,' he breathed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, have now fixed the random line that cut off. No idea what happened there.


	22. Chapter 22

 There was a time, a very brief space of time, when John and Greg used to tease each other about their respective partners. John, newly bonded to Sherlock after years of dancing around each other, and Greg, having a casual but intense relationship with Mycroft, had been in very different places. But they were the only people who really knew what it was like to be with a Holmes. More than once Greg and John had slipped out of Baker Street unnoticed when Mycroft and Sherlock were going at each other like children, each man trying to prove he was smarter than the other.

'Sometimes I'm glad I'm an idiot,' John mused over drinks one evening.

'You're not an idiot. You're a doctor.'

'And I'm with Sherlock.'

Greg nodded, 'Yeah. Fair enough. You're an idiot.' He took a long, thoughtful drink, 'So what does that make me?'

'Oh, you're an idiot too.'

There had been much teasing about things that went on in the bedroom, and playful arguments about who got the worst Holmes. Having an ally had been nice.

And then everything went to shit.

Mycroft rejected Greg, and just as he was coming to terms with that, Sherlock jumped off the roof of St Barts. Through it all he and John had been there for each other, and in all honestly, Greg wasn't sure he'd still be there at all if it hadn't been for John.

Then Sherlock came back and everything changed. Greg, reunited with Mycroft, had felt the full force of his protective alpha instincts kick in, and when John bonded with Mary, Greg protected Sherlock. That meant pushing John away, making decisions for the omega when he couldn't make them for himself, and all the while trying to do the right thing.

It wasn't until that very moment, standing outside Sherlock's hospital room, watching John as he lay beside the consulting detective, limbs tangled together, foreheads pressed together, eyes closed, that he realised how much he had failed the doctor.

First, by not telling him Sherlock was alive. Then by not doing what Mycroft asked by breaking John and Mary up, and taking Sherlock's side, shutting John out, severing contact and keeping him from Sherlock. But the worst thing Greg had done in the whole sorry scenario, was not realising just how much John was feeling. Hurting.

The pain in his chest threatened to overwhelm him.

'We are real arseholes, Mycroft.'

Mycroft didn't respond. He didn't have to.

 

#

 

_John._

_John. John. John._

_Johnjohnjohnjohnjohnjohn..._

…

_...John._

Sherlock's mind slowed, every thought fading into silence except for one. One thought that made everything else irrelevant. Unnecessary. Insignificant.

_John!_

 

_#_

 

Anthea glanced at the two sleeping forms on the single bed but said nothing.

'You don't think this is the correct course of action.' Mycroft said. It wasn't a question.

Giving him her most compliant smile, Anthea set down her bag and unbuttoned her jacket, ready to settle down for the evening.

'You've had worse ideas, sir.'

Greg snorted at the look on Mycroft's face, and then bent forward to kiss Anthea's cheek, 'Call us if.'

He didn't ad an 'if _something'_ because they both knew that any change would be an _if._

Anthea reached out and threaded her fingers through Greg's, giving a brief, tight squeeze, 'Of course.'

 

#

 

'You know,' Gregory said, sliding into the back of the car beside Mycroft, 'That woman is amazing.'

'Yes.'

Mycroft wrapped one arm around the sleepy man at his side, and then turned his attention to the window.

 

#

 

'Oh, sorry!'

Anthea glanced up at the sound of retreating footsteps, 'Hello.'

The woman hesitated. Wide eyed and uncertain, she almost vibrated with nervous energy. Anthea took in the loose fitting clothes, chosen, she guessed, in a subconscious attempt to conceal the figure underneath them. Lab coat, one size too big. Braid trailing over one shoulder, secured with a glittery hair band from a multi pack and several hair grips suggesting she often lost these items and so didn't invest in quality alternatives. Eyes averted slightly, looking, but not wanting to be looked at.

Anthea smiled

'You must be Dr Hooper.'

The other woman started slightly, her cheeks flushing pink.

'Molly.'

'I'm Anthea,' she smiled. Had Molly been anyone else she would have extended her hand, but she could already tell that Dr Molly Hooper was someone who preferred smiles, 'I work with Mycroft, Sherlock's brother.'

'Oh.' Molly digested this new information, 'Oh...!'

Anthea waited for realisation to dawn. It didn't take long.

'You're A!' Molly's face flushed deeper, 'You're the one I was talking to when...when Sherlock was....'

'Yes.' Anthea smiled again, remembering the constant emails and messages back and forth to coordinate and then conceal Sherlock's jump. 'It's nice to finally meet you.'

The little omega was still pink, and hovering in the doorway, unsure. Anthea stood up.

'If you want a couple of minutes, I can get us some coffee.'

Molly's mouth opened, 'Um....that...thank you.'

Suppressing the desire to laugh, Anthea made for the door, sliding past Molly who was still hovering there.

'White?' she asked, looking at the other woman, 'No sugar?'

Molly looked momentarily startled by Anthea's deduction, but then her face relaxed into a smile and she rolled her eyes, 'You work with Mycroft...of course you can do that.'

Anthea just smiled again, her real smile, not the one she used on strangers or Mycroft when he was in a _mood._

'I'll be right back.'

 

#

 

'Myc?' Gregory roused himself, fighting the urge to sleep.

'Hmm?' Mycroft was scrolling through emails on his phone.

'What about Mary? Where is she?'

That had been the question Mycroft had been attempting to find an answer to for the last half hour. Mary Watson had simply disappeared,

Mycroft hated that term. It suggested something supernatural or conspiratorial. In truth, people disappeared every day. It wasn't hard.

'I have people looking for her.'

Gregory shifted slightly against Mycroft, as much as the seatbelt would allow, and sighed, closing his eyes again, already being reclaimed by sleep.

'I don't trust her with...'

Mycroft, not normally overcome with sentiment, pressed a soft kiss to Gregory's head.

'Me either,' he whispered.

 


	23. Chapter 23

Mycroft often marvelled at how easily he and Gregory shared bed space. Mycroft tended to lay still, curled into a small shape, while Gregory liked to sprawl across the bed, arms and legs flung out, usually pinning Mycroft down in some way. In the past Mycroft had hated sharing bed space, and hated even more when partners would try to cuddle as they slept. He found it claustrophobic. But there was something comforting about the heavy weight of Gregory's arm across his chest or shoulder during the night. It wasn't a cuddle, it was possession. And Mycroft found that he didn't mind that. Part of him liked it, liked that Gregory thought of Mycroft as belonging to him, liked the little ways that came out day to day.

The easy way Gregory gave his affection had allowed Mycroft to open up in a way he had never felt comfortable, or inclined, to in the past. Far from being stifling, it was incredibly liberating.

Gregory shifted slightly in his sleep, burring his face deeper into the pillow, but his arm across Mycroft's chest didn't move. Watching his mate as he slept, Mycroft once again realised how very lucky he was that Gregory had given him another chance, and how very much he loved the other man. If only he could work out a way for Sherlock to once again be that happy.

 

#

 

Mycroft had an early meeting before he was due to return to the hospital to relieve Anthea. He slipped quietly out of bed, careful not to disrupt or wake Gregory. As he was on his own, not trusting a junior member of staff with the particulars of such a highly sensitive subject, Mycroft had his laptop open in front of him, his notes and Anthea's previous presentations on the subject already loaded on the screen.

They were forty minutes into a deep discussion on North Korean refugees in China, which was one of Anthea's hot topics and made Mycroft wish that she was there with him, and she would be had it not been for bloody Sherlock, when the email icon flashed quietly in the corner of Mycroft's screen. Without breaking his flow, Mycroft clicked to open the email, and gasped in shock, feeling his face flushed wit heat.

Gregory had emailed him a picture of his erect cock.

There were some curious stares from around the table as Mycroft hastily closed the window and tried to compose himself.

'Is everything alright, Mr Holmes?' a special advisor asked.

'Fine,' Mycroft assured, 'I just need to make a call.'

It said something of his position that no one questioned objected as Mycroft rose from the table and left the room, already fishing his moblie out of his jacket pocket.

Gregory answered on the first ring.

'You are in so much trouble Gregory Lestrade!' Mycroft hissed furiously.

This only made Gregory laugh, 'Promise?'

Mycroft almost growled, which just seemed to amuse Gregory even more.

'What would people say if they knew that a respectable Detective Inspector at the Met was sending... _cock_ pictures during important meetings?'

'They'd say 'Wow, that's a pretty impressive cock, his husband is a very lucky man.''

Mycroft couldn't help himself, and he smiled a little. There had been times after his wife left him, and after his relationship with Mycroft fell apart, that Gregory's confidence had been so low he wouldn't even have made jokes like that. When his own self worth was so low that he barely made eye contact with people, and his smiles were rare. He'd been like that just months previously, and yet here he was, sending rude pictures and laughing about it, and Mycroft found he couldn't be angry at all.

'I hate you,' he said, doing his best to sound angry.

Greg let out a huge bellow of laughter.

'Love you too, Myc.' he said and rung off, still laughing.

 

#

 

Greg arrived at the hospital first. The door to Sherlock's room was closed, and there were two of Mycroft's security staff stationed outside. Greg didn't know their names, but he'd seen their faces often enough when they were supposed to be 'discreetly' following him around on Mycroft's orders. He nodded to them and took a glance through the window.

Sherlock and John was sitting on the bed, leaning in close to each other, whispering quietly. As Greg watched, John pulled Sherlock's dressing gown further up his shoulder. It was a surprisingly tender action, and Greg stepped away from the window and went to find Anthea.

He didn't have to go far. Anthea was on her way back down the corridor, looking surprisingly fresh faced for someone who'd spent the night sitting on uncomfortable plastic chairs. She smiled when she saw him and offered him of of the coffees she held in her hand.

'I was wondering when you'd bother showing up,' she said with a teasing smile.

'It's six thirty!' Greg protested, sitting down on one of the blue chairs that lined the corridor.

'And some of us have already put in half a day's work.'

Greg gave her a look, 'And I thought Mycroft worked hard.'

'Ah yes, nice photography skills by the way.'

Almost choking on his coffee Greg couldn't look at her, aware that his face had turned a deep shade of red.

'Oh,' she reached into her bag and pulled out two envelopes, handing them to Greg, 'Congratulations, you don't have chlamydia.'

Greg didn't look at her as he put the envelopes, unopened, into his pocket. He didn't ask how Anthea had acquired them, or how she knew their contents. Anthea, he was aware, had ways and means.

'So,' he said, trying to change the subject, 'How were they last night?'

'Sherlock was a bit restless, but having Dr Watson there helped. They woke once or twice, but I think the worst of it is over, although it's still going to be an unpleasant few days. I have located Mary Watson,' Greg's head snapped around to look at her then, 'Do you want me to send someone to retrieve her?'

Greg thought about it for a second. He liked Mary, she didn't deserve random agents dragging her somewhere. Greg had been on the receiving end of that treatment, and he knew it never ended well. Besides, John would never forgive him if he allowed anything to happen that might scare Mary.

'Send me the details and I'll go,' he said. They deserved that much.

 

 


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little shortie in which Greg and Mary have a heartfelt conversation.

 Mary was staying with a friend in Croyden and didn't look surprised when she opened the door to Greg.

'John send you?'

Greg shook his head, 'Can I come in?'

For a second he thought Mary was going to close the door in his face, but then she stood to one side and let him through. The flat was small, but sparsely decorated in reds and blacks against white walls. It was the sort of modern minimalism that would set Mycroft's teeth on edge. One or two elegantly framed photographs showed a woman in her thirties. Mary caught Greg looking.

'She's not here,' she said, sitting down and indicating for Greg to do the same.

He hesitated for a second before choosing a seat on the chair opposite her.

'What do you want, Greg?'

'I wanted to talk to you about John.'

'Do you know what happened?'

Greg shook his head, 'No. I know something happened between him and Sher-'

'They had sex.'

Taken aback by the matter-of-fact way that Mary said it, Greg wasn't sure how to respond. He'd suspected. Alright, he'd been pretty damn sure that's what had happened, but hearing it confirmed was something else.

'He didn't even try to hide it,' Mary said, not taking her eyes off Greg's.

He'd been prepared for her to be upset, maybe cry. But he hadn't expected the cold anger that filled the little flat. It was a different side to Mary, and Greg didn't like it, he didn't know how to deal with it.

'Is he with... _him_ now?' she didn't even try to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

Greg nodded slowly, 'They're in hospital.'

Concern flickered across her face, but just as quickly she shut it away again in the same way that Mycroft did.

'Is John-?'

'Fine. Well, no. Not fine,' Greg sighed, 'Look, it's like this, after whatever it was happened, Sherlock overdosed and ended up in hospital. John seems to have felt some of that by, I don't know, residual bonding or _something,'_ Greg shook his head in frustration, 'Sherlock's come down was...difficult. We thought, me and Mycroft, that if he had John close by he would be calmer, recover faster.'

'Did he?'

'He's getting there.'

'I thought he was clean now. John said he was.'

'We all thought he was clean. He hadn't touched the stuff since he- in years,' Greg caught himself, but not before Mary gave him a twisted smile.

'Since he met John you mean.'

Greg nodded, 'Yeah.' he said eventually.

'So what are you doing here?' she asked, her voice once again cold and challenging, 'Come to tell me to stay away from him?'

'No. I came to see if you were alright. I should have come sooner, but I...honestly Mary, I just didn't think. And that's not something I'm proud of.'

She regarded him with cool eyes, 'So, what now?'

'I thought you might want to come and see him. He's not in a good way.'

'And have to watch them together?' for the first time there was a trace of genuine upset in her voice, 'Because that hasn't been much fun so far.'

Greg wanted to say something to comfort her, but he couldn't say anything that wasn't going to sound patronising, and he wasn't going to insult Mary by feeding her platitudes.

'See,' Mary went on, her eyes too bright, 'It's not like I didn't know about him. Right from the start John was honest. And it was hard to hear about how much he'd loved someone else, and hear about all the crazy adventures and stories and...and...and I thought it would be okay, because he was dead, right. But even I knew I was competing with a dead man for John's attention, and I was only _just_ ahead because I was alive and he wasn't.'

Mary broke off, looking away for a second to compose herself, when she spoke again her voice was once again calm.

'Then he wasn't dead, and John didn't know how to cope with that, and he fell apart and I had to be the one who was there for him because none of you were,' the look she gave Greg wasn't accusatory, but it was angry and full of hurt for John, 'You were supposed to be his friend and you just left him to cope with all of that on his own.'

'I know,' Greg could barely get the words out.

'I thought when Sherlock left for the country that maybe he'd start to get over it, but that didn't last long, did it? And suddenly His Nibs is running around around London causing havoc and John is trotting after him like a spaniel. Do you know what it's like to watch someone you love chose someone else over you?'

'Yes.'

Mary hadn't been expecting that answer, and her mouth opened slightly as if she were trying to find a suitable response. Greg glanced down at his hands, where they were clenched on his knees.

'I was bonded before. My wife cheated on me then left me. I knew,' he admitted slowly, 'Of course I knew. Even knew who he was. But...well, you deny these things, don't you? Of course, Sherlock announced it to everyone at Christmas a couple of years ago.'

There was a trace of sympathy on Mary's face.

'So yeah,' Greg said, 'I know exactly how it feels,' he took a deep breath, 'That was one awkward party, let me tell you.'

Silence fell in the little flat for a long time, and Greg was just about to take his leave when Mary spoke.

'I'm not going to win here, am I?'

Greg thought for a second before giving her the most honest answer he could.

'I don't think anyone is going to win.'

 


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lack of updates this week folks - so here, have a massive one! :)

On the narrow hospital bed Sherlock trembled, his body shaking through the waves of nausea and pain. The only thing he was aware of besides his own body, was the comforting press of John Watson beside him.

The bed wasn't big enough for two, but that didn't stop them, legs tangled together, arms wrapped around each other. Sherlock buried his face in John's neck, trying to control the tremors, but not caring at all about the tears that flowed freely, soaking John's skin and shirt. John made no indication that he noticed or cared. He just wrapped his strong arms around Sherlock and held him tight.

'I'm here,' he whispered, 'I'm here and I won't leave you.'

'Do you promise?'

'I swear to god Sherlock, I'm going to stay right here,' his voice was just a breath in Sherlock's hair.

'I came back for you,' Sherlock said.

'I know.'

'I came back and you were gone.'

John swallowed and made a pained sound deep in his chest.

'You left me, Sherlock,' he managed, voice rough with emotion, 'You left me _again._ You _keep_ leaving me. You left me behind on cases. In Tesco. You leave me behind when we're in the same room and you disappear into your _mind._ I can't follow you there, and I can't even begin to imagine what you see. And then you-you-' John broke off with a muffled sob, 'Don't you leave me again. Don't you _dare_ leave me again.'

Sherlock nodded against John's shoulder.

'Say it, Sherlock,' John rasped, and the pain in his voice cut through Sherlock, 'You promise me that you won't leave me again.'

'I won't.'

'Promise,' John pressed.

'I can't promise, John. Anything could happen that could-'

John pulled back and looked across at Sherlock, and Sherlock had never seen his friend look so distraught.

'You fucking promise me right now Sherlock Holmes!'

Sherlock was rocked by the raw emotion pouring from John and he nodded.

'I won't leave you again.'

 

#

 

John sat beside Sherlock who was in better control of his body, his cramps easing slightly. Sherlock's dressing gown had slipped down, but Sherlock hadn't seemed to notice. Smiling softly, John reached out and pulled it back up over Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock didn't smile, but the look he gave him was soft.

'I'm sorry about what happened, I shouldn't have-' John began.

'I'm sorry for reacting the way I did,' Sherlock cut him off.

'For throwing me out or for taking a bucket load of heroin?'

This time Sherlock did smile, but it was an embarrassed smile and he ducked his head slightly away from John's critical gaze.

John sighed, 'This can't go on like this.'

'I know.'

'But I don't know what we do about it.'

'I feel like we've had this conversation before.'

Despite himself, John gave a soft laugh, 'Yeah, and look how that worked out.'

Sherlock tugged on the sleeve of John's jumper, thumbing the rough wool. God how he hated that jumper.

'It shouldn't have been like this,' John said quietly.

'But it is.'

'Yeah.'

'We need a plan,' Sherlock said, 'Clear objectives. Parameters. Rules.'

John wanted to laugh as Sherlock latched on to the only certainty in his life. Science. But he couldn't. Because Sherlock was right.

'I loved you,' John said, reaching out and turning Sherlock to face him, 'You need to know that. Don't ever doubt it, not for a second. I loved you. I-I still love you.'

'You love Mary too.'

There was no emotion in Sherlock's voice, just straight fact, and John felt his heart contract.

'I do, yeah,' he dropped his hand from Sherlock's face and stared down at it, 'But that doesn't change how I feel about you, you know that? I can't be without you,' John said, surprising himself.

Sherlock stared at him for a long time.

'But you chose her.'

 

#

 

It was late when Greg returned to the hospital. Mycroft was on the phone, so he just nodded at him and flashed a quick smile, before bending down and kissing Anthea on the cheek before he stole her coffee. Anthea gave him a mock glare, and Mycroft raised his eyebrows, but didn't pause in his conversation.

'What are they talking about in there?' Greg asked Anthea as he sat down beside her.

Anthea glanced towards the door, 'You know.'

'Any progress?'

'Some.'

'Mycroft offered to have Mary killed again?'

Anthea gave her prim, half smile and dropped her eyes back to her blackberry.

'I went to see Mary,' Greg told her.

'I know.'

'She's...' Greg shrugged, 'I don't know how she is to be honest.'

Greg rubbed a hand through his grey hair and Anthea took the opportunity to rescue what was left of her coffee from his other hand.

'Don't suppose you have any suggestions?' he asked.

'Now, you know better than that,' she said, pursing her lips and tilting her head to one side in a gesture that always made Greg smile.

'You are so like Myc sometimes that it's actually scary.'

 

#

 

John watched Sherlock pluck at the sleeve of his shirt, he'd left his jumper over the back of his chair when he went to the bathroom and it had promptly disappeared. Sherlock had been asleep at the time, so John couldn't even blame him and when asked Sherlock had known nothing about it.

'You're seeing someone?' John asked, not able to look at Sherlock.

'Hmm. Not really.'

'Oh?'

'Just someone to scratch an itch.'

John was actually shocked, and he didn't bother trying to cover it.

'You're displeased.'

'I'm surprised.'

'You're angry.'

'I'm confused.'

'You're jealous.'

'...yeah.'

They smiled at each other then, shy smiles that didn't need words.

'You never had a heat when we were together,' John said slowly.

'No. There was no need, I'm not female,' Sherlock shrugged, 'I was on medication.'

'Shame,' John mused, 'Could have been fun.'

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him, which only made John smile.

'So, now you're picking up random men for sex?'

'What did you think I did before I met you?'

John had often wondered about that. He knew that, despite popular belief, Sherlock had been far from a virgin when they met, but he'd never known the man have, or even talk about anything that could be considered a relationship.

'I have had partners,' Sherlock said, reading his mind, something John found amazing and annoying in equal measure, 'And no, I don't remember who all of them were. Not something I'm proud of, but …' anyone else would have dropped their gaze in embarrassment, but not Sherlock. John had learned over the years that while Sherlock had struggled to get, and stay, clean, he didn't care who knew what about his past issues with substance abuse. Sometimes John had even felt that that it was something Sherlock was slightly proud of.

'Where any of them-'

'Some of them were lasting relationships, yes.' Sherlock's voice was cold.

'Oh.'

'You're aware that you say that a lot?'

'So...what was your longest realtionship then? Aside from me?'

Sherlock dropped his head slightly, 'Seven years.'

John was shocked, and a little hurt.

'You never mentioned.'

'Because it wasn't relevant.'

'It's a pretty big chunk of your life, Sherlock.'

'And it was over before I met you.'

'What happened?'

'Opium,' Sherlock said simply, 'Hard to maintain a healthy relationship when one of you spends all your time high and sleeping their way around London.'

It wasn't often that Sherlock talked about his past issues, and John didn't want to say anything that might make him stop.

'And now?'

'Well, I suppose I'll just go back to sleeping my way around London. Might give the drugs a miss this time.'

'You'd bloody better,' John growled, 'Because I can't do this again,' when Sherlock's face fell John softened slightly, 'How are you feeling now?'

Sherlock didn't respond, he just glared at John.

'It was a close call, Sherlock. I'm not going to lie to you. But I need to ask you something and you have to tell me the truth.'

'I didn't do it on purpose.'

'Sure?'

Sherlock rolled his eyes, 'I already killed myself once and look how that turned out.'

Flinching at the casual way he said it, John tried not to raise his voice, 'Probably still a bit too early to be making jokes about that.'

 

#

 

It was late on Friday night and Molly Hooper was trailing around the 24 hour Tesco, her basket contents the truly pathetic collection of a single girl who lived alone. Wine, ready meal for one and a family sized bar of Dairy Milk. She was halfway down the pet food aisle when she heard her name.

'Molly!'

Startled she looked up at the smiling face of Mycroft Holmes assistant, Anthea, who was looking effortlessly elegant in a tailored grey suit. Molly was suddenly conscious that her jeans had a tomato soup stain from where she'd spilled her lunch.

But Anthea wasn't looking at her jeans. She smiled at Molly in a friendly way.

'Working late?' Molly asked.

Anthea rolled her eyes, 'Aren't I always? I've been at the hospital, Sherlock's doing a lot better now that Dr Watson is with him. I just called into get some dinner for Mycroft,' she shook a bag of dry cat food.

'Mycroft?' Molly frowned at the bag and wondered if Anthea was crazy or just really overworked, 'Is this another one of his strange diets, because-?

'Mycroft is my cat,' Anthea laughed.

'You called your cat Mycroft?'

Anthea nodded and tried to balance the cat food under her arm along with the microwave lasagne she was holding.

'Why did you call him after your boss?'

'Because he's an arrogant and evil bastard that's only nice to me because no one else is stupid enough to put up with his shit.'

'Your boss or the cat?' Molly asked.

Anthea just grinned and tossed her hair back.

'What's yours called?'

'My boss?'

'Your cat.'

Molly looked slightly flustered, 'How did you know I had a cat?'

'All the best people have cats,' she smiled one of her bright smiles, 'And you're in the pet food aisle and you have cat hair on your jeans. I can sympathise. It's a bugger to get out of my tights.'

'Oh!' Molly flushed red, not sure if she should laugh or be embarrassed, 'S-she's...uh, she's called You.'

Anthea's smile widened, her blue eyes flashing, 'Like the books?'

'Yeah,' Molly ducked her head slightly.

'I always wanted a white one,' she shrugged, 'But then this scabby ginger tom turned up at my door one day and never left. He knows he's onto a good thing, I think. Hey, I don't suppose you know where they keep the wine in here?'

Molly pointed and Anthea gave her another one of her smiles, 'Thanks. I'd better get on, but I'll see you around.'

She strode off quickly in the direction Molly had sent her, leaving Molly standing in the middle of the aisle, slightly dazed.

 

 


	26. Chapter 26

 Greg was frowning at his bank statement when Mycroft came into the kitchen.

'Something wrong?'

'What? Oh, um, I don't know. My support payments to the ex have stopped.'

'Oh?' Mycroft said, but there was something about his tone and the flash of guilt he felt that raised Greg leaned back in his seat and looked up at his husband, 'What did you do?'

'Why would I have done anything?'

'Mycroft, tell me the truth. Did you have anything to do with this?'

Mycroft hesitated.

'Don't even think of lying to me.'

'I may have negotiated a settlement on your behalf.'

Greg tried to take that in, 'You mean you paid off my ex-wife?'

'Possibly.'

'What the fuck, Mycroft? You can't do things like that.'

'It made more financial sense long term, the amount she accepted was less than you would have paid over the next ten years, and she was very content with a lump sum.'

'Jesus! We have talked about this sort of shit. You can't keep doing things like this – especially when it comes to money. Seriously. Do you have any idea how pathetic that makes me feel?'

The stricken look on Mycroft's face almost made me feel bad.

'I get the urge to provide, okay, it's built in. But seriously, I'm not some omega reliant on you for everything in return for a nice home life and a brood of children.'

Mycroft practically jumped at his last statement, and Greg stopped, staring at him as something started to poke at his brain.

'Is that what you want?' Greg tried to keep his voice steady, but the waves of emotion rolling off Mycroft were making that hard, 'Is that why you didn't want me?

 

#

 

Mycroft was rarely panicked, but the question took him by surprise, sending a stab of hurt through his chest.

'I never wanted anyone,' he said, watching Gregory's face. It was something he'd said before, but still, the pain in Gregory's expression upset him, 'I assumed that, should I ever want to settle, and trust me that plan was not what I had in mind, that it would be some compliant omega, willing to stay at home, provided for and protected, an extremely comfortable life in return for occasional companionship. And then there was you. A man who storms into my office and threatens to break my fingers, refused to back down on a case because he was in the right, who won't even let me pay for dinner. I just didn't know what to do, I'm not good at this.'

He felt Gregory's eyes on him looked back up.

'You're an idiot, Mycroft Holmes,' Gregory shook his head, 'You know what it's like for me, having those same protect and provide instincts and knowing that I'm completely unnecessary in your life. You don't _need_ me to look after you, and to be honest that makes me feel pretty shitty. And I worry about you, more than you'll ever realise. I live in fear of getting a phone call to tell me that someone has taken a pot shot at you, or tried to blow up your office because those are things I can't protect you from. I feel helpless. And then you go and do something like that,' he waved the bank statement at him, 'And it makes me feel crap.' Gregory took a deep breath, 'And you never answered my question, do you want children?'

'I've already got Sherlock.'

Gregory laughed at that, and it was a welcome sound in the room.

'What about you?' Mycroft asked hesitantly, well aware of how that particular topic could be a breaking point for couples.

'Never really thought about it,' Gregory admitted, 'The ex didn't want them, and then there was you, and two blokes, you know? So it was never really something I thought about, and I'm not buying stories about blokes getting pregnant, either, no matter what the internet says. I suppose if you really wanted one we could buy one, I'm sure you know the right people.'

'Gregory!' Mycroft gasped, 'I am not buying you a baby.'

'What about a puppy then?'

 

#

 

Sherlock was asleep when John pushed up his sleeves and took a good look at his arm. Counting track marks, brushing his fingers over the old ones with sadness and glaring at the newer ones with anger. Greg had warned him, but he still wasn't prepared for it. The first time he had spotted them was after they had been living together for about six months. He'd come home early to find Sherlock sitting in his chair wrapped in just a sheet.

He'd known before then, of course. Lestrade had let it slip the day after he met Sherlock. He could never say he wasn't prepared going into a friendship and then relationship with the other man.

He thought about the other scars. The ones across his back that would never fade, result of torture for what he did to protect John, and he never wanted to see another scar across that body again.

'I can't believe you did that,' John whispered, stroking lightly as the marks on Sherlock's arm. Without thinking, he bent down and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's forehead, and then lay down beside him, pulling him close and trying not to enjoy the way Sherlock's head rested on his shoulder.

 

#

 

Mycroft was not asleep. He'd been awake for two days and his body ached with exhaustion, but he couldn't turn his mind off. Beside him Gregory rolled over, making snuffly noises in his sleep that Mycroft usually found annoying, but instead found them strangely endearing. He leaned over and kissed Gregory's cheek, and was surprised when a heavy arm snaked around his waist pulling him closer. He knew he wouldn't sleep, but he lay there, feeling warm and content

 

 


	27. Chapter 27

 Anthea was _having a moment._

She'd discovered all the paperwork that Greg had been hiding from Mycroft, and had started with the shouting, which had quickly progressed into stony silence and she read through the papers to work out which ones were important. Then she just decided to fuck it all, and that's where Greg found her half an hour later as she angrily shredded every single one of them.

He took one look at her and started to back out the door.

'Um, were they important?'

She turned her bright eyes towards him, and hissed, 'We'll never know.'

Greg felt a moment of panic as he wondered what her actions could cause, but he wasn't about to say so at that moment. Anthea had once caused a massive security alert that shut down most of London, and he didn't even want to think about the time she called a helicopter out to him because he'd called her a minion.

'You're really unstable, do you know that?'

No one else could have gotten away with calling Anthea that, she just turned and looked calmly at him as if questioning why it had taken him so long to notice.

'Yes.'

 

#

 

Mycroft was in Geneva.

Greg was very displeased about this fact.

Mostly he was pissed off because Mycroft hadn't told him, seemingly thinking that he could fly out and back in the same day and Greg would be none the wiser. Greg probably would never have known had he not been sitting beside Mycroft's mother when she called his office to ask if he was free for lunch.

'Geneva?' she'd exclaimed, knowing full well that Greg and Mycroft had had The Talk about the dangers of him being in the field.

Greg had frowned but said nothing about it. Sherlock had smirked into his soup until his mother told him to behave.

At least Mycroft had the decency to look embarrassed and guilty when he walked through the door of his office and found Greg sitting behind his desk, a travel brochure for Geneva propped open in front of him.

'Ah.'

'Don't,' Greg didn't look up for a long time, 'You promised me, Mycroft. No more fieldwork. Not after the last time.'

'It was a simple, low level conference.'

'The last time you went to one of those someone poisoned you. And are you forgetting about the explosion you were caught up in last year? See, this is what I was talking about last night. You run off to these things without a thought about whether you'll come back or not. You're just like your bloody brother.'

Mycroft coloured slightly, but didn't say anything in the face of Greg's anger, which was just as well, because the way Greg was feeling over it, he might just have punched him in the mouth.

Greg had tried to make his mate understand, over and over. But he just wasn't listening, and Greg was out of ideas and patience.

'My ex lied to me so much, I can't go through that again, Myc. So you need to decide what you want more, the fieldwork or me.'

Taking no pleasure from the look on Mycroft's face, Greg pushed away from the desk, dropping the brochure before walking out. He didn't look at Mycroft as he passed, and when he went upstairs to bed, he went to the spare room.

 

#

 

In the morning, after a terrible night's sleep, he opened the bedroom door to find Mycroft, still fully dressed, sitting outside. He didn't look as if he had slept, and when he lifted his head to glance at Greg, his eyes were shadowed and the lines on his face deeper than Greg had ever seen them. When he finally spoke his usually smooth voice was rough with emotion.

'I want you.'

 

#

 

Greg leaned over Anthea's shoulder as she worked at her desk and growled slightly. Anthea immediately knew why, and she kept her gazed fixed on her computer screen where she seemed to be composing a threatening email to Tesco over a discontinued brand of hummus she was fond of.

'No more fieldwork.'

She nodded, just once, without turning around.

'I _will_ know, Anthea.'

Anthea didn't respond, she seemed to be weighing up her options. Greg decided to give her an added incentive.

'If I find out he's left the country for work, I will make sure you're clothing allowance is cancelled.'

Greg could see her eyes widen in the reflection on the screen.

'Bastard,' she hissed without turning around.

'That's my girl,' Greg ruffled her hair and left the office before she came to her senses and threw something at him.

 

#

 

Mary came home after four days, but John knew enough to know he wasn't welcome in their bed. Instead he camped out on the sofa on the nights he wasn't at the hospital. Sherlock was doing so much better, but he always seemed to improve when John was there, and if nothing else, John owed him that much.

They didn't talk about what had happened. Mary seemed determined to ignore it, until the morning John was getting ready to leave.

'You're not working today,' she said.

'I'm going to see Sherlock,' John tried to make it seem like it wasn't a big deal, but there was no fooling Mary.

'Again? You spend more time there than you do at home.'

'Well, since you kicked me out of bed, I didn't think I was too welcome here.'

'And is that why you go to him?'

John frowned, insulted by the comment, but knowing that she needed and answer.

'He needs me there.'

'Why?'

'Because it's my fault.'

He blinked. He hadn't expected to say that, and it surprised him that it had come out automatically. Mary was staring at him as if she wasn't sure what to make of his statement.

'Why do you think it's your fault?'

John shrugged, 'Because it is. Oh, it's his fault too. But things have been weird since he came back.'

Mary stared into her coffee cup, refusing to look at her husband, 'Do you still love him?'

'Yeah,' John said quietly, after a long pause, 'I do. But I love you too, and I made a commitment to you.

'You made a commitment to him as well.'

'I know,' John gripped the edge of the counter as the familiar pain tightened in his chest, 'And then he jumped off a roof and left me on my own, so make of that what you will.'

He knew he shouldn't be angry about that, not now he knew why. But he was and it hurt.

'How am I supposed to trust you?' Mary asked, still refusing to look at him.

'I don't know.'

 

#

 

'It's about trust, Mycroft.'

Mycroft frowned, Gregory only called him by his full name when he was angry. They were sitting opposite each other across Mycroft's desk. He hadn't been expecting Gregory to visit for lunch, getting the feeling that the other man was too angry with him to spend time together at the moment, so the arrival of his mate was both pleasant and confusing.

'Now I know you hold half the secrets in the country, and I don't expect you to tell me them,' Gregory raised his hands, 'But the ones relating to us, yeah, you need to share those.'

'I have apologised about Geneva, and it won't happen again. I gave you my word, and I shall honour it.'

Gregory just shook his head, 'I'm not talking about Geneva, Myc.'

Mycroft felt uneasy for a moment as he looked across at his husband, who was wearing a strange, slightly dazed looked.

'Gregory?'

'I got a letter from the bank today,' he said, clearly making an effort to keep his voice light, 'About the joint account I never agreed to.'

'Oh?' Mycroft squirmed sligtly, wondering where this was going.

'Oh indeed,' Gregory tapped his fingers against his knee as he thought, worked out what he was going to say, 'The balance on that account is...well it's enough to buy half of Scotland, or a small island somewhere. It was...surprising.'

'I did warn you.'

'Yep, but you never told me a figure. I mean...Myc!'

'I'll be honest that I don't know the exact total,' Mycroft admitted, and Gregory just gaped at him.

'A gentleman never knows the contents of his bank account.'

'I know mine down the penny,' Gregory said, 'And I can tell you that I was pretty fucking surprised when I got that letter.'

'Perhaps I should have warned you,' Mycroft said, 'But you were always disinclined to talk about money in a positive way.'

Gregory pulled a face, 'That's what happens when you've never had any.'

'You're still uncomfortable.'

'Yeah. Very,' Gregory leaned forward and rested his chin in his hands, 'I can't believe there's that much money and you still let me go out to work every day.'

Mycroft wasnt sure how to respond to that, but he didn't need to as Gregory carried on.

'I'll tell you something, you're buying dinner. And we're eating posh tonight.'

 


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last update for this evening - more tomorrow.

 Sherlock was released from hospital into a facility of Mycroft's choosing. It was far from the first time that had happened. What had surprised the politician was that John Watson went with him. He wasn't going to be staying, he had made that quite clear at the time. But he would be there as much as possible, his concern for Mycroft's brother was touching.

'And how does Mrs Watson feel about this?'

John had squirmed under Mycroft's gaze.

'She's not best pleased.'

 

#

 

Anthea had a secret list of things that had become personal projects. There were ten items on it.

 

 

_THINGS TO FIX_

 

_1\. Mycroft and Greg_

_2\. The Turkish Ambassador's haircut_

_3\. Swiss Economy_

_4\. Election results for the south west_

_5\. Prime Minister's tie_

_6\. North Korea_

_7\. Decor in ladies' washroom_

_8\. Voting system in Commons_

_9\. John Watson's jumpers_

_10\. Sherlock and John_

 

So far there were three crossed out, and she carefully drew a line across number five before dropping a yellow and green striped tie into the wastepaper bin. That had taken more effort than she had anticipated, and in the end she'd had to be frank and tell the man he looked like a clown.

With great care and in elegant script, she added another entry to the list.

 

_11\. Molly Hooper_

 

_#_

 

'Myc, do you trust me?'

Mycroft looked up from his paperwork and nodded, 'Of course.'

If he didn't know better, he'd have said Gregory was embarrassed, but he'd found that the man had relatively little shame, so he just set down his pen and looked at Gregory expectantly.

'It's just...there's something I want to do, but I'm not sure how you'll feel about it.'

'Would this be something of a sexual nature?'

Gregory rolled his eyes, 'No, Mycroft, I wanted to change your filing system.'

'There's no need to be sarcastic, Gregory.'

'Well then, get up and I'll show you what I was thinking of, and if you don't like then we don't have to do it again.'

And that was how Mycroft Holmes found himself bent over his desk, hands scrabbling for purchase as Gregory pushed his tongue back inside him, hands gripping tightly to his hips.

'Jesus Christ!' Mycroft gasped as he came over his desk, not caring what got coated in the process.

Gregory laughed as he licked a line up from his arse, tasting the sweat on Mycroft's skin.

'You are a filthy man, Gregory Lestrade,' Mycroft panted, still trying to pull himself together, 'And we are definitely doing that again.

 

#

 

John Watson stared at the jumper in his wardrobe for a long time. He wasn't entirely sure where it had come from.

'Was this you?' he asked Mary, indicating the article in question.

Mary just shook her head and continued her search under the bed for her other shoe, 'No.'

John fingered the arm of it, noting that there was still a price tag on it. Someone had torn off the actual price, but John knew it must have been expensive. It looked, and felt, like something Sherlock would have worn, if he'd worn jumpers. Navy, cashmere and the softest thing he had ever felt.

John frowned.

 

#

 

Mycroft was troubled. He couldn't get Gregory's comment about working out of his mind, and the more he thought about it, the more uncertain he was.

It got to the stage where he wondered if Gregory resented working, and he tried raising it with Anthea, who just glared at him.

'He loves his job,' she said, 'You know that.' she shrugged, 'He'd do it for free.'

And _that_ sent Mycroft into a worried trance wondering if _he_ would do his job for free, if he loved it that much. For the first time in his life, Mycroft wasn't sure about the answer to that.

 

#

 

Anthea picked up the file by the very corner, unwilling to touch it at all. The pages were stuck together with something she didn't even want to think about. She deposited the whole thing in the bin and sat down behind her desk, opening the Tiffany website and decided what Mycroft was going to have to buy her this time.

 


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> teeny itty bitty short chap this evening - because i have so much planned for my boys for tomorrow. :)

Mycroft sighed at the sight that met him.

'Gregory, you're drunk!'

Swaying slightly where he stood, Gregory tried to protest, 'I'm merely capernoited!' he waved one arm theatrically, and then squinted as he thought, 'Possibly gambrinous.'

'And what happened to your arm?' Mycroft asked as he steered Gregory towards the waiting car, trying to avoid the arm that was encased in a dark blue sling.

'Broke my shoulder.'

Mycroft felt a flush of alarm, 'How?'

'Work. Was running and tripped over dog.'

'Oh, Gregory,' Mycroft opened the car door for him, 'And you think my job is dangerous.'

Gregory turned his dark brown eyes on Mycroft, looking slightly indignant, 'I hardly ever get shot at.'

'That's not very comforting,' Mycroft pushed Gregory into the car and after taking a couple of deep breaths he climbed in beside him, 'And you really shouldn't be drinking if you're on painkillers.'

'I know that now,' Gregory leaned back in his seat, 'Do you like my sling?'

'It's very fetching,' Mycroft assured him.

'They had pink ones too, I wouldn't have minded, I'm secure with my gender,' Gregory said very seriously, but then he gave a silent burp which slightly ruined things, 'But this one reminded me of you. Your eyes.'

Mycroft laughed slightly and Gregory went back to staring out his window.

They were almost home before Gregory spoke again.

'Maybe I can get Anthea to sew some sequins on it or something.'

 

#

 

Greg made his way downstairs in the morning, squinting againt both the sunlight and the pain in his shoulder. Mycroft was already having breakfast, if a black tea and a reading of the paper counted as breakfast.

'How are you feeling?'

'Like shit,' Greg slid into his chair and rested his head on the table, 'I'm never drinking again.'

'That's what you always say,' Mycroft turned the page slowly, 'Sargent Donovan left a message for you this morning.'

'Oh?' Greg tried to lift his head.

'Yes, she said to tell you that you were, and I quote, 'an impossible bastard' and that you 'needed to sort your shit out,' Mycroft pursed his lips disdainful at having to utter such language.

'You're really sexy when you do that,' Greg said, smiling at him. Or attempting to smile.

Mycroft, however, was not amused.

'I think we need to talk about your fieldwork.'

'Hmm?' Greg managed from his position on the table.

He was aware that Mycroft had shifted slightly in his position.

'I'm aware that we've had a conversation about the risks of my job, but we have never really addressed the risks of yours.'

'You're not really going going to do this now, Myc, are you?'

'You were severely injured last night.'

Greg waved his uninjured arm in the air, 'I fell.'

'Over a dog,' Mycroft took a sip of his tea and didn't meat Greg's gaze.

'It was dark and I was running.'

'And what happens next time?'

Greg frowned at him, 'I will try and see the dog?'

'You know what I mean!' Mycroft's response was sharp.

'You don't want me going out any more, do you?' Greg said slowly.

Mycroft didn't look up from his cup.

'Myc?'

Eventually Mycroft sighed and met Greg's gaze, ' You didn't want me out there against risk. But you do it every day.'

'It's my job.'

'It's my job too.'

They stared at each other for a long moment across the table, each considering the other's point of view.

'I don't want you going out again, Myc,' Greg said eventually.

'But you want me to sit back and watch as you throw yourself in the firing line?'

'I could only work the...safe cases.'

'But then you would be putting someone else at risk in your place.'

Neither of them spoke for a long time. Their tea had long gone cold, and the sound of Greg's alarm was bleeping from somewhere upstairs.

'Low risk,' Greg said eventually.

'What?'

'I said, low risk. I'll carry on, but on low risk cases.'

'That will hamper-'

'That will keep me safe.' Greg reached over and grabbed Mycroft;s hand, 'No suspects on the run, no terrorists.'

'Sherlock?'

Greg took a deep breath and his grip on Mycroft's hand slackened slightly.

'I can't leave...'

'I know.'

Mycroft looked at him across the table and Greg knew that he really did know.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> capernoited – slightly intoxicated or tipsy  
> gambrinous – full of beer


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In all honesty this chapter has been done for days I really have no excuse other than I went dancing with my cousin and two friends and had a whole raft of crazy adventures that I'm sure will end up in fics in the future, and then I've basically spent the last couple of days laying on the sofa and reading 'Constantinople Falls' by the amazing Saziikins (I devoured the Behemoth that was 'Human Remains' in days - seriously -check her out). So, sorry, but at the same time, kinda not sorry. Here's a return to regular programming.

Sherlock did not like rehab. He complained. He shouted. He threw things. He clung to John and refused to let him move or leave.

For his part John stayed close, holding Sherlock through shakes and nightmares and constant tremors. He oversaw his meal plan, assessed his medication, interviewed his therapists.

'You're very concerned about your friend's welfare,' one of them, a tall, black woman with a knowing expression said, 'Is there some history there you'd like to discuss?'

'I just want to make sure he is getting the best help possible.'

'We noticed that he's bonded – is his mate around?'

'Yes,' John said, because really, it was easier than trying to explain. They would know anyway, it woud all be there in Sherlock's medical file. John knew exactly what it said about their broken bond because he had been the one to write it. It was the last thing he did before he signed Sherlock's care over to someone else. It was too hard.

Greg or Mycroft came every day, depending on who could get away from work. Sometimes they even managed to visit together, which tended to set John on edge slightly. He was used to Greg and how Mycroft's scent mixed with his own, but it was always just too much when he was in a room with both of them. Too many alpha hormones in one small space, and the layered scents that hinted at a relationship. John had met several alpha alpha pairs, and they always left him feeling the same way, slightly off centre, the element of the unnatural relationship triggering something instinctive. Greg had teased him about it often enough, but always with a certain look in his eyes that suggested he was more than aware of how people viewed his relationship. God only knew how much harder it was for Mycroft.

Everyone wanted to protect Sherlock. Even the tiny Molly Hooper practically burned with a desire to look after the damaged omega. One afternoon she came with Mycroft's assistant, Anthea, chatting companionably as they walked down the hallway in a way that made John smile. He was very fond of Molly, but her personal life was disastrous. Bar a short-lived thing with Greg all of her boyfriends had been terrible, and she found it hard to make friends who weren't put off by casual conversations about exploding spleens or the slight scent of industrial disinfectant that tended to follow Molly home.

Anthea visited twice a week, sometimes giving Molly a lift, other times just settling herself in a corner with her blackberry while she waited on further instructions from Mycroft. She'd been there on the one time Mary had come to visit. She'd glanced up from her phone as Mary entered, narrowed her eyes and then excused herself.

'She hates me,' Mary glared after her.

'No,' John lied. Anthea had always had something of a soft spot for Sherlock that John had never fully understood, especially since Sherlock saw her as little more than a necessary annoyance in his life. Much the same way he viewed Mycroft.

Sherlock also did not look pleased to see Mary and he curled his lip and then set about ignoring her for the entire forty minutes she was there.

 

#

 

Greg had been tortured once.

He'd never spoken about it to anyone apart from Sally Donovan, who'd been there. It wasn't even in his files, he'd made sure of that. He was fairly certain Mycroft knew, but he knew that Mycroft was harbouring his own secrets about those sort of things. It wasn't that it didn't get to them, it was just part of the job. One of the risks that only increases the better you get at what you do, and if you were considered a target then in a twisted way it meant you were doing something right. So if that meant taking another beating, or having your fingers and toes broken one by one, or having to watch a colleague assaulted, then that's what you did.

They didn't talk about it. Even now, a decade later, if it was ever mentioned then it was fleeting, little more than a shared look across the room, or a word, a name that would prompt Greg to give his team the afternoon off and head for the pub.

Sometimes there would be a case...Greg hadn't felt scared like that in years, not since he'd learned to hide it. Of course, he'd felt much better when one of the bastards was found face down in the Thames missing his testicles and most of his teeth, and if Sally Donovan didn't look surprised then Greg wasn't going to question it too closely.

But he remembered the nights.

That was always the worst part, when the world was too quiet and the fear would start to creep in. In the year after the incident he spent more time sitting awake on the sofa than he did in bed. His wife tried to understand, but really, how do you understand something like that unless you are there? Unless you've been through that? It's not something you can learn on a course, and not something you can prepare for.

He saw it in John when he first met him, but it took until the first night he crashed at Baker Street before he realised what he was seeing. They'd been out late on a case, had a celebratory pint and Greg had collapsed on the sofa.

John slept with the light on. Greg only noticed when he got up to use the bathroom. He'd put it down to exhaustion and alcohol. But over time he started to a notice a pattern. John was always the first one to get up and turn the lights on when it was getting dark. He never closed the curtains and the first thing he did when he came into a room was look towards the light switch. There were more lamps and candles in Baker Street than two grown men should ever need.

John caught him looking one day and stopped, hand still on the light switch.

'Really bad?' Greg had asked, emboldened.

John considered his question and then licked his lips and nodded, 'Yeah.'

And that was that. They didn't need to talk about it any more. Because they _knew._

Now Greg was watching Sherlock twist and writhe in his sleep, and he knew that very soon they would be dealing with different problems. Drugs had been Sherlock's way of coping, but soon he was going to be off those, and then, and only then, would they start to address what happened to him while he was away.

For now, Greg needed to talk to Mycroft.

 

#

 

Mycroft knew the conversation was coming. He'd seen the way Gregory watched Sherlock as he slept, he'd noticed the increase in the man's own nightmares, which for months had been almost non existent. He'd seen how tired he was, the stress pulling at him from all directions. So when Gregory walked into Mycroft's office and closed the door, he was ready.

Anthea, who had been taking notes, rose to leave, but Gregory put out a hand to stop her.

'You'll just listen in anyway.'

Anthea sat back down and dropped her gaze slightly, hands on her lap, Backberry out of sight.

Gregory was only focused on Mycroft though, and Mycroft could feel the man's distress.

'We don't have to-'

'We do,' Gregory cut him off, and Mycroft fell silent, 'I'm not gonna make a big thing out of it, and it's no relevance to who I am now or why I do what I do. I'm only saying because your brother is going to need a lot of support, support he should have been getting for months. This time he doesn't get to dictate the help he gets. This time we have to do it for him, because it's not just the drugs now Myc, it's what happened to him when he was away, and it's what's happened since he got back, and he's going to need help and he's such a stubborn fucking-'

Gregory turned away and when he turned back he looked calmer.

'You already know what happened, don't you?'

Mycroft didn't break the look he and Gregory were sharing, and it was Anthea who spoke.

'Yes.'

At the sound of her voice, Mycroft turned to face her, shocked.

'How did you know?'

She squirmed slightly, 'I...investigated. I wanted to make sure Detective Inspector Lestrade was good enough for you, sir.'

There was silence following that, and Mycroft didn't know whether to laugh or cry. From the slightly stunned look on his face, Gregory was suffering a similar issue.

'And?' Gregory asked eventually, 'What did you decide?'

'Well, I let you bond, didn't I?'

At that Gregory actually did laugh, the sound loud in the room, and Mycroft was filled with an urge to rush to the man and hold him. But he didn't, he just sat behind his desk and stared at the man he loved.

'I know,' Gregory said, clearly interpreting the expression on his face. He smiled sadly and sat down, 'Which is why you are going to tell me what happened to you.'

 

#

 

'I was in Tehran,' Mycroft said matter-of-factly, 'When I was working with MI6. One of our agents was indiscreet and our unit was cornered and taken. We lost three agents. I'm unclear what happened to the others, their bodies were never found. I was starved, beaten, sleep deprived.'

Greg knew that Mycroft could be cold, but he was shocked at the level of detachment in the man's voice.

'Both of my legs were broken, my wrist and I am almost completely blind in my left eye.'

'That's why you don't drive,' Greg said slowly, and Mycroft nodded, 'And the umbrella?'

'Less conspicuous than a cane,' Mycroft said.

'Were you ever going to tell me?'

'No.'

'Is there anything else?'

'No.'

'Honestly?'

'Yes,' Mycroft spoke without hesitation.

'Anthea,' Greg said without taking his eyes of Mycroft, who was now visibly distressed.

'Yes, sir?'

'I want you to cancel all of his meetings for the rest of the day and then you can go home.'

'Sir?'

'My husband needs a hug, and then he and I need to have a long chat.'

Anthea nodded, standing quickly, her notebook in her hand, she looked between Greg and Mycroft for a second, and then she swooped down and kissed Mycroft's cheek. She'd clearly never done it before because it was enough to jolt Mycroft, and he blinked up at her, but she was already at the door, pausing only to squeeze Greg's arm before closing the door gently behind her.

 

 


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because i love my boys as much as you do....

 

A week later Greg was walking through the main office when he spied Sally Donovan sitting at her desk, all alone in the quiet of the night. He paused behind her for a second.

'Sal?'

'Yeah?' she didn't look up from the email she was typing.

'Sal, did you kill him?'

She froze, her hands still over the keys. Eventually she lowered them, but she still didn't look up at Greg. Instead she inclined her head, just slightly, just enough to tell him what he needed to know. Greg reached out and squeezed her shoulder .

'Good girl.'

 

#

 

Mycroft had never thought of himself as lonely.

Oh, he was aware that he was. In so far as professionals would state. But Mycroft had never felt lonely. He had more than enough work to get on with, Sherlock alone was almost a full time occupation, then there was Gregory...

And then Gregory spoke to him, told him secrets, in front of Anthea.

That was when Mycroft realised that he had more in his life than a junkie brother and a damaged Detective Inspector.

Gregory had spoken freely in front of her. Opened up and in turn invited Mycroft to speak. He didn't hesitate. Didn't hold back.

Gregory saw Anthea as a friend.

More than that. He saw Anthea as _Mycroft's_ friend. The way he spoke with her in the room, the way he revealed things easily in her presence. The way he waited for Mycroft to speak about his own issues without a thought to whether she was there or not.

He saw Anthea as Mycroft's friend.

It confused Mycroft. He'd never had a friend who hadn't been set on a higher agenda. Social standing,political power...

Then Anthea looked Mycroft in the eye and said 'I...investigated. I wanted to make sure Detective Inspector Lestrade was good enough for you, sir.'

And for the first moment in his life, Mycroft Holmes wasn't lonely.

 

#

 

Gregory Lestrade was a man on a mission.

He could have asked John, or maybe even Sally. But this was something he had to do himself. He arrived home to find Mycroft pouring wine, already shed of his jacket and waistcoat.

'Dinner?' Myroft looked up at him, 'I was going to order Thai.'

'What about that Greek place you like?'

'You hate Greek.'

'You like it.'

'Yes, but-' Mycroft stared at him, 'What?'

'Hmm?' Greg made a show of looking into the open wine bottle, and it was only when he felt Mycroft's hand on his arm that he looked up.

'Gregory?'

Confronted with those blue eyes, open and worried, Greg lost his nerve and dropped his gaze. But Mycroft wasn't going to let him away with that.

'Gregory?

'Hmm?'

'Talk to me.'

'About what?'

'Whatever is on your mind.'

Greg lifted his head and looked at Mycroft then. Mycroft, tall, slim, thinning red haired, blue eyes, long nose he was conscious about, small chin he wasn't. And for a brief second Greg wasn't sure what to say. He didn't want it to be like this.

'Gregory?' Mycroft said again, more softly this time.

'Here,' Greg slid the bag across the table, not meeting Mycroft's eye.

'What's this?' Mycroft opened the bag and then stopped, the box inside still in his hand.

Across the kitchen Gregory dropped his head and shrugged into his coat.

'Marry me.'

'What?

'Marry me,' Gregory looked up, not quite meeting Mycroft's gaze.

The only sound was Mycroft rustling the bag, and then silence as he opened the small blue box.

'I know it's old fashioned,' Gregory said, even before Mycroft opened the box, 'And I know we;re already bonded, but, and you know,..you know... but we aren't like everyone else. So,' he looked across at Mycroft, 'So.'

Mycroft opened the box, revealing two silver rings. Then he looked back up at Gregory.

'Are you sure?'

Gregory took his face in his hands and kissed him, lightly and softly.

'Say yes.'

Mycroft smiled.

'Yes.'

 


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> happy happy times before all the shit begins again - short chapter and mostly caused by the fact that I came out to my family. Over dinner. In the middle of someone else's argument. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time. And was pretty much the most uneventual coming out ever. Even my 8 year old daughter told that I 'might as well be gay. Everyone else is' and my best friends told me to tell them when I did something intersting, like get my pilot's licence - and then proceeeded to send me a lot of links to local flying clubs. My cousin told me it 'explained a lot' and my girlfriend asked me if it meant we had to share a room at her parents house. I am either really awesome at being bi, or I really suck at it. I'm not sure yet.
> 
> And yeah, probably a weird place to come out to ya'll, but where better that the wonderfully slashy community who has welcomed me with open arms.
> 
> So, to make up for my drama, here are out boys doing something nice.

It was a small affair. After all, no one really got married any more, not when bonding had the same legal benefits. It was old fashioned and unnecessary and Greg knew it would appeal to Mycroft's sensibilities.

He wasn't stupid. He'd seen the way Mycroft had been watching his interactions with Anthea, he'd seen the flare of jealousy in his eyes when Greg's phone chimed, the increasingly possessive way Mycroft acted around him in public. It was sweet, but it was all so unnecessary. Maybe one day Mycroft would realise that too.

Greg's parents couldn't come at such short notice, and not even the mighty Mycroft Holmes had been able to reschedule an entire airline. His sister made it, and sat proudly in the front row, Skyping the whole thing to their parents in France. Mycroft's parents came, and Greg got the handshake and brandy while he could hear Mycroft berated by his mother in the next room.

'You treat him properly this time!'

Greg smiled into his drink and silently counted down the hours until it would all be over.

Sherlock, to no one's surprise, didn't come. But John did, and Sally, Anthea and a handful of others from work, including Molly and Dimmock.

'Oh dear,' Mycroft's mother said when she arrived, 'It's not a very big turn out.'

'I don't want a big turnout,' Greg tried to smooth his hair in the hall mirror, 'I just want Mycroft.'

 

#

 

There had been very few times in his life when Mycroft had been completely silenced.

He paused, halfway down the stairs, and listened to Gregory's short exchange with his mother.

In truth, Mycroft couldn't care less about who was there, how many people, or what they thought. All he wanted was Gregory. And to hear the other man express the same sentiment made Mycroft pause.

He'd never had anyone want him just for him. Not without expecting favours, or seeking power.

And then Gregory Lestrade asked him to marry him.

Gregory wanted none of those things. Mycroft knew that. He'd always known that. The man had been so prickly about things like that since the day they met.

Marriage was very much _not_ in vogue. Most people considered it to be showy exhibitionism, reserved for the romantics and the wealthy. It was a public confirmation of a bond that was already obvious.

But...

Mycroft thought about the two silver rings in a box in Gregory's pocket. Thought about what they meant. Thought about why Gregory was doing it.

Which was why he ended up walking into the kitchen to face the man.

 

#

 

Greg saw Mycroft in a suit every single day. Even on his days off. But he still stopped when Mycroft walked into the kitchen in his new grey pinstripe.

'Isn't this bad luck or something?'

'Something,' Mycroft gave a ghost of a smile that didn't fool Greg for a second. He was by Mycroft's side before the door had even closed.

'What's wrong?'

When Mycroft turned his stormy eyes to him, Greg's heart almost broke, and he spoke before Mycroft had a chance to answer.

'I love you, that's why,' Greg took Mycroft's face in both his hands, forcing the other man too look at him, 'Right?'

Mycroft didn't speak.

'It's one more thing, Myc,' Greg carried on, 'One more thing that tells everyone you...are mine.'

 

#

 

There was no reception. Mycroft was summoned to an urgent summit when a bomb was dropped on the wrong part of Iran and Greg, Sally and Dimmock were called to a crime scene and John went back to see Sherlock. Anthea took Mr and Mrs Holmes to dinner, dragging Molly along as the only other member of the wedding party still around.

All in all, it both a typical and a slightly strange evening.


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Greg offers everything.
> 
> Thar be sex on that there horizon.....!

Mycroft was in his office when he heard Gregory come home. He abandoned his paperwork and was already at the bottom of the stairs before Gregory had his shoes off. He paused. The other man was leaning against the wall, supporting himself with one hand like he was about to kick off his shoes and throw his jacket onto the chair, but he wasn't moving and his shoulders were slightly rounded. He did not look like a man who'd gotten married seven hours ago.

'Gregory?' Mycroft advanced cautiously, instinct making him want to pull Gregory towards him, but knowledge telling him not to approach the alpha from behind. But when Gregory dropped his head slightly Mycroft ignored that knowledge and rushed towards his husband.

'What happened?' he asked, stopping just short of Gregory, one hand reaching out to touch his side, waiting for the other man to turn to him.

'Bad case,' was all Gregory said. And then he did something Mycroft didn't expect. He pressed backwards into him so Mycroft was leaning against his back and Mycroft instinctively tightened his grip on Gregory's side, his other arm coming up to hold the man.

'Come on,' he said softly, 'Let's get you to bed.'

'No,' Gregory's clamped down on Mycroft's and he pulled him closer, pulling his hand around so it cupped his erection.

It was an unexpected action, and although Gregory could be forward, it was rare for him to be quite so blatant. Mycroft felt himself hardening in response.

'Bed,' he repeated, his voice deeper this time.

But Gregory shook his head, 'Here.'

He made to turn Gregory around, but the other man shook his head and held firm.

'Here,' he repeated, and the weight of what he was saying made Mycroft's mouth dry.

'Are you-'

'Here.'

'Okay,' Mycroft said slowly, and then he made to step back, 'I'll get-'

'No.'

'What?'

'Just you,' Gregory's voice was rough, and it stilled Mycroft for a second.

They hadn't always been careful, but there were some things they had never done without a condom.

'Gregory...?'

'Mycroft, I want you to tell me you love me and push me against this wall and fuck me. I want you to do it fully clothed, and without a condom and in full view of the security camera.'

'Jesus,' Mycroft breathed.

'And I want you to do it now.'

 

#

 

Mycroft was hard against him , but for a moment Greg thought he was going to turn him down. But Greg needed this. He needed Mycroft. He'd been thinking about it for days, and while he'd done it before, it had always been a game. A kink. It hadn't meant anything more than that.

It would mean more than that with Mycroft.

He reached around and pulled the other man tighter against him with one hand, the other already fumbling with his belt.

Mycroft's breath was hot on his neck, lips ghosting against the skin there.

'Are you sure?'

'Yes.'

'I don't think I'll be able to stop.'

Greg dropped his head and tightened his grip.

'I don't want you to stop.

 

#

 

It wasn't the hard and fast fuck Greg had thought he'd wanted. It was slow and soft, one of Mycroft's hands gripped his hip, and the other was braced against the wall beside his own as Mycroft moved inside him, breath shuddering with every movement.

 

#

 

Feeling Gregory around him in a way he had never felt him before, both of them fully clothed, still in their wedding suits, Mycroft's fly open and Gregory's trousers pulled down just enough, in full view of the cameras and several of Mycroft's staff, pressed against the wall, Mycroft _taking_ Gregory...it was the most erotic thing Mycroft had ever experienced.

Gregory came suddenly and silently, his body shaking hard, semen laced against the wallpaper, dripping to the carpet where it would stain both. Everyone coming into the hall would know what had happened there.

That was enough to drive his own orgasm, and as he came inside Gregory the other man dropped his head, pushing harder back against him, and at the sight of the pale expanse of skin at the back of the man's neck, Mycroft let nature take over, sinking his teeth in deeply.

 

#

 

At the flush of pain Greg snapped his head around and bit in response, his teeth making contact with Mycroft's wrist.It was only when he felt the tang of bloody that he suddenly relaxed, sinking back, allowing Mycroft to hold him up.

Exhaustion claimed him. He'd done it. He'd given the other man everything he had and a strange contentment settled over him as he felt the hot wetness on his neck as Mycroft gently lapped at the mark he'd put there, and quietly in Greg's ear he whispered that he loved him and Greg allowed himself to be held, knowing that never want anyone else.

 


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So my boys have a moment and are stronger than ever, and we get to the start of John and Sherlock's figuring stuff out arc.
> 
> And Anthea is awesome, cause.....well, why not?

Mycroft didn't move for a long time. Still inside Gregory, he whispered against his skin and held him, feeling the other man gradually relax again, and breathing in his scent deeply. Greedily.

When they eventually moved, Mycroft quietly led Gregory to bed, helping the exhausted man undress and laying him down before curling up beside him, watching the rise and fall of his chest, feeling the warm, heavy weight of his arm around Mycroft.

He pulled in close to Mycroft, pressing his nose against the scar from Mycroft's bonding mark, and in a voice so quiet Mycroft almost didn't hear it, he spoke.

'You are mine. And I will always want you. And when you need me I will always come for you. I will give you everything.'

In that instant Mycroft knew exactly what case Gregory had been called out to work and his blood ran cold.

 

#

 

'Our wedding day!' Mycroft hissed into his phone an hour later.

'I wasn't aware, sir,' he could hear Anthea's breathing hitch slightly as she increased her walking speed.

'I want him off the case. He should never have been called into it.'

'Yes, sir.' Anthea said, and hung up.

There was a change in the atmosphere in the room, and the scent of Gregory filled the air. Mycroft allowed himself one indulgent inhale, knowing it may be his last. Then he turned.

Gregory was standing in the doorway, just a pair of pyjama bottoms on, his arms folded across his chest. He stared at Mycroft until the other man lifted his gaze and looked at him, unsure.

'I'm not on the case,' he said eventually, his voice level and devoid of emotion.

'But-'

'I passed it on to Gregson. He's good,' Gregory paused, looking hard at Mycroft as if trying to work something out, 'I assigned him Sal. She knows enough to be thorough, but is a bitch enough to be impartial. She'll make sure it's all right and above board.'

Mycroft nodded, but Gregory wasn't finished.

'Officially I'm not part of the investigation. I can't be. Unofficially I'm going to do everything I can. My team is discreet, but I want Anthea too.'

'Anthea?'

'I need someone on your side, someone who knows the case, and Sherlock isn't much good to me right now, and I know you don't trust anyone else.'

Mycroft just nodded, still trying to work out where the conversation was going, and when Gregory was going to walk out the door and leave him.

But Gregory stepped towards him instead, and closed his hands around Mycroft's arms and pulling him close so he could look straight into his eyes, giving him no option to turn away.

'I saw the tape, Myc,' he said softly, his tone still firm, 'I saw what they did to you and I heard what they said. It's not true. You _know_ it's not true, and if you don't believe it yet, then you need to know that I am going to spend every day of the rest of my life proving it to.'

Mycroft's heart lurched and his own breath choked him. Gregory was already steering him towards the sofa, gently pushing him down. Mycroft was so weak he had no resistance and allowed him. There was a soft sound as Gregory lowered himself beside him, close enough that their knees touched, but that was all. From where Mycroft sat he could see the deep bite mark on the back of Gregory's neck, red and bloody next to the mangled white skin of his bond mark. His scent was tinged with the metallic edge of blood and worry and...anger.

There was a soft click and the door opened, Anthea, still in the dress she'd worn to the wedding earlier that day, slipped in, barefoot and balancing a bottle of gin and a pizza box. Mycroft had never loved or appreciated her more than he did in that moment, and the gentle smile Gregory gave her as she sat down opposite them, his hand squeezing Mycroft's knee at the same time, made Mycroft realise how lucky he was to have them both.

'We are going to talk about what happened to your other brother,' Gregory said firmly as Anthea opened the bottle and took a long swig without bothering to look for glasses. She passed it across to Gregory who did the same, and then Mycroft.

'But first I want to know everything about this case,' Gregory said, taking the bottle back from Mycroft and opening the pizza box.

Across the coffee table, Anthea lifted a slice and sat back, tucking one leg underneath her and fixing Gregory with a knowing look.

'His name,' she said, licking cheese off a perfectly manicured finger, 'Is Magnussen.'

 

 


	35. Chapter 35

John was thinking about marriage as he walked across the car park of the rehab clinic Sherlock was at. Once upon a time everyone got married after bonding, but laws changed, bonded pairs got the same rights are married ones, and even the same terminology. Sherlock had, legally and biologically, been John's husband. Thoughts of an actual marriage had never occurred to him.   
Watching Greg and Mycroft though had made John think about marriage. He'd never thought of it as an option, remembering his own father's comments about it being for romantics and hippies. But there was something sobering about the way Greg had looked at Mycroft during the short ceremony. It was with a certainty that John had never seen on another face, and for a blistering second he wanted someone to look at him like that. Like they knew they were giving everything they had to him, in every possible way and they wanted nothing else in the world.  
John's footsteps were heavy as he walked into Sherlock's room to find the other man in the middle of a composition, violin under his chin, pages of scribble symbols littering the bed. He was staring into the middle distance and seemed unaware of John, who sat in the uncomfortable brown chair and litstened as Sherlock played.  
It had been Greg's idea to let him have his violin in lieu of cases. John had to admit that it had been working. It seemed to soothe Sherlock to play, his eyes closed and his long fingers moving elegantly over the instrument that John had only found out was worth more than his flat.  
John had always loved to listen. Sherlock had rarely played in front of him in the early days, but John would lie awake in bed at nights and listen to his crazy, ridiculous best friend as he played the most haunting music that stayed with John for days. That was long before they were together, long before he had even realised how he felt for Sherlock. But he still thought back to those nights when he was alone in his own room and it felt like Sherlock was playing him love songs.  
The first time he saw Sherlock play was an accident. A date he'd been on had ended rather disastrously and he was home earlier than he'd expected, but late enough to be quiet as he crept up the stairs. He could hear the music from the street, but was still surprised to find Sherlock standing in the middle of the living room, eyes closed, entire body relaxed, stepping gently in time with the tune he was playing.  
John had stopped in the doorway, silent, watching, mesmerized by the sight until Sherlock realised he was there, stopped abruptly and demanded tea.  
Sherlock didn't stop playing now. And as one tune morphed into another, John leaned back and listened, his own eyes closing, his mind transporting him back years to his old bedroom, to when all he could do was listen to the incredible man downstairs, and without meaning to he spoke.  
'If I'd asked you to marry me, would you have done it?'  
Sherlock's playing faltered for a half second only as John's eyes flew open at what he had said. Without stopping his play, Sherlock turned away from John.  
'Of course I would.'

#

When Anthea left, Gregory linked his fingers through hers, squeezing gently, and he nodded up at her, a half smile on his face. She didn't smile back, but she did return the squeeze before tilting her head towards Mycroft. When the door closed behind her, Gregory took Mycroft by the hand and led him back upstairs to bed where he undressed him in the dark, making love to him in silence.  
Mycroft let Gregory take the lead, marvelling at how the man could still want him after everything he had seen that day.  
They came in Gregory's hands, silent and intense, clinging to each other. Gregory stilled in Mycroft's arms for a long time, and just when Mycroft was about to move, Gregory did something unexpected. He pushed his hand up along the length of Mycroft's torso, smearing it with their mixed cum, the scent heavy in the air. Mycroft shuddered and Gregory lay down with him, half on top of him, skin between them sticky and thick with their combined scents.   
He pressed against Mycroft, tongue tracing the bond mark on his mate's neck.  
'Mine,' he whispered.  
Mycroft immediately pushed closer to Gregory, letting his arm wrap tightly around him, feeling the weight of his head against his shoulder, felt the slide of semen coated skin between them and he breathed in their combined scents knowing that it would last for days. That everyone would be able to tell they were together, tell what they had done. And then he smiled, ducking his head to kiss the crook of Gregory's elbow where it curled possessively across his chest.  
'Mine,' he replied.

#

Anthea went home and did all things she usually did. She checked her emails, had a quick scan through the newspaper headlines for the next day, fed her cat and shrugged out of her uncomfortable clothes.  
She'd had a strange day.  
The wedding had been nice. Stressful, but nice. And dinner had been...when Anthea took Mycroft's parents and Molly to dinner she had done so in a professional capacity. She hadn't expected to enjoy it. His parents had gone through rather a large amount of red wine and laughed loudly and in tandem at old stories and in-jokes, which was sweet and refreshing. Molly had come out of her shell after her third glass of wine and Anthea found her innocently inappropriate comments and observations to be one of the highlights of the evening.  
And then behind it all had been the knowledge that both Mycroft and Greg had trusted her with these people they cared about, and she thought that perhaps, finally, finally, Mycroft realised she was his friend.  
She leaned back in her seat and took out her phone, pulling up her secret list and staring at it. Eventually she made a decision and pulled up her extensive contacts list. The phone was answered on the third ring.  
'Molly!' she said, 'How would you like to do some crime?'

#

Sally Donovan took another large swig of her coffee as she thought back over the events of the day. It was supposed to be her day off. It was supposed to be Lestrade's wedding day. Instead they ended up at a dirty crime scene and then...something had happened to the DI and he'd backed off.  
She'd seen him rattled before, she'd seen him fall apart, but it wasn't until she was handed the footage Lestrade had been sent that she finally understood.  
It was hand delivered by the brunette woman she'd seen at the wedding just a few hours earlier. She handed Sally a disk simply labelled 'one'.  
'It's watermarked,' the woman said, her tone casual, but her gaze anything but.  
Sally considered her for a minute. The woman clearly worked for someone, but she was paid well if her wardrobe was anything to go by. Expensive, tailored gown, hair and nails professionally done, shoes Sally had lusted after in a magazine that cost as much as two weeks rent. She'd also called Lestrade 'sir' earlier in the day, which meant she must work for...  
'Holmes?'  
The brunette tilted her head and smiled, 'This existence of this disk must never be made public, not even to your superiors. It was sent to the Detective Inspector while he was on his way to a crime scene. It will not be mentioned in any reports and will be seen by no one except yourself. There are individuals in the recording who will not be named, they will be obvious. You will be contacted shortly by an agent from MI6. You and only you will meet with them. Detective Inspector Lestrade wishes you to be honest, but I require you to be fair.'  
'Aren't they the same thing?' Sally asked as the woman turned to leave.  
Glancing back over her shoulder she gave Sally a searching look, 'Not always.'

#

Sherlock fell asleep with his head in John's lap.  
They hadn't even been sitting closely. John was at the bottom of the bed, shoes kicked off, reading. Sherlock had played for hours, and then without warning he climbed up beside John, curled his knees close to his chest, and put his head in John's lap. Which is where he fell asleep moments later.  
John sighed down at him, stroking a hand through his black curls, and then he picked up his book again.

#

Sally Donovan was so far up shit creek she wasn't even sure she would make it out alive.  
The video had been unexpected, and it completely changed everything she thought she knew.  
It wasn't recent. She knew because the man had no bond mark and he was much younger, his hair thick and a brighter shade of red. The voice was clear and distinct. And the face was one she had smiled at just a few hours before.  
She watched what happened, and listened to what was said through the static of the recording, and she knew, without a doubt, that she had to make sure that no one else ever saw it.

#

'Will we get arrested for this?' Molly had asked as they let themselves back out of the dark flat and slipped into the back of the waiting car.  
Anthea gave her a look, 'No.'  
She closed the car door and looked down at the bag she was carrying.  
'We might get an OBE though.'

#

Greg looked across at the sleeping man curled against him and felt his chest constrict with love.  
And as he did he heard the words all over again.  
'You're alone...'  
'No one is coming for you...'  
'Your team won't come...  
'No one cares about you....'  
He heard the words and he heard the harsh lash of leather against skin that he would never forget until his dying day. The cries Mycroft gave. The image of him bound and unable to help himself.  
'No one is coming for you...'  
The image of Anthea, gun raised, shooting a man between the eyes even as he still had the stick in his hands.  
'No one is coming for you...'  
The images of Mycroft literally hauled out of the building as bullets screamed above his head.  
'No one is coming for you...'  
Anthea, on her knees shouting at someone behind her, hands above her head.  
'No one is coming for you...'  
Mycroft tied to a chair, face bloody, clothes dirty, voice choked, 'Tell Gregory-'  
'No one is coming for you...'  
He pressed his lips against Mycroft's forehead, physically aching.  
'I will always come for you.'

#

Mycroft was roused from a light, dreamless sleep by a kiss, lips soft, but dry against his skin. For a second he panicked, then he breathed in Gregory and his whole body relaxed.  
He was safe.  
Gregory held him close, and against his skin he whispered.  
'I will always come for you.'


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here, have some porn

Greg swung his arm as far as he could and winced at the pain that lanced across his shoulder. He hadn't been wearing his sling for the last week or so, and his follow up xray had shown no problems, and he'd left the hospital with a sheet of instructions of what to do to help it heal and keep the mobility. But he'd jerked it badly at work, which was why he was climbing the stairs to retrieve the stupid sling from the back of the wardrobe.

#

I hate you – G

#

Mycroft listened to his husband come down the stairs and glanced up as he stormed past in fury, his arm safely snuggled into his sling, which was now delicately covered in pink and yellow rhinestones.  
He waited until he heard the kitchen door slam before he opened a new email.

#

That was mean, my dear. MH

#

Anthea read the two messages and laughed.

#

The day after John realised that Sherlock had feelings for him, he'd been standing at the sink washing two days worth of dishes when he heard Sherlock come into the room. Things had been quiet between them, and for the most part they had avoided each other while they worked through their own issues.  
'That bowl in the fridge,' he said without looking around, 'Is that an experiment or just really old pasta?'  
Sherlock didn't speak, instead he reached around John and slipped his hand into the front of John's pyjama bottoms and wrapped his long fingers around John's cock.  
John dropped the plate he was holding and it bounced off the edge of the work surface and smashed on the floor, but John wasn't focusing on that. Instead all he could think about was the feel of Sherlock's hand on him, and he gripped the counter as Sherlock stroked him, flicking his wrist in a way that brought John's orgasm in moment and left him shouting as he came.  
Sherlock calmly withdrew his hand licked the small amount of cum off the back of it, and the went back to his laptop leaving John standing in the kitchen surrounded by broken crockery and with a wet stain on his pyjamas.

#

John hadn't meant to fall asleep beside Sherlock at the clinic, but he'd stayed later than normal because the other man was having a bad night, shaking slightly, a little feverish. So John had coaxed him into bed and lain down beside him, intending to only stay until Sherlock calmed down.  
He woke in the dark, when he felt Sherlock stir slightly beside him, and took John a second to realize that his hand had moved from Sherlock's stomach to his groin, where it was gently caressing Sherlock's testicles.  
It took John longer to realise that he was pushing himself towards Sherlock, his own erection nudging at Sherlock insistently.  
He made to move his hand, but Sherlock gave a needy whine and pushed back, which was when John felt it. A wetness on the back of Sherlock's pyjama's that John had never encountered before, and the feel of it combined with the realisation of what it was drew a growl from John's throat and he instinctively pulled Sherlock's pyjamas down so he could feel for himself. He gasped as his fingers touched the slick wetness surrounding a hole that was already open, and he was pressing into Sherlock before he even realised what he was doing.  
He should stop. He had to stop.  
But there was no way John could stop now, instinct and hormones wouldn't let him. He knew this even as Sherlock moaned and writhed beside him.   
Sherlock was in heat.

#

Mycroft was working late when Greg stopped by his office. He stood up to greet his husband, but Greg pushed him back hard, pinning him against the desk and kissing him, hands already undoing Mycroft's belt.  
He pushed Mycroft hard in the chest, forcing him onto his back across his desk, and pulled Mycroft's trousers and boxers off in one movement. He ran his hands across Mycroft's thighs gently, and reached in his pocket. He didn't warm the lube, and his own fingers were cold from being outside all day, and the sensation as the first one pressed into him made Mycroft's gasp.  
Greg loved watching Mycroft during sex, loved the desperate sounds he made as he clung to Greg.  
He opened his own trousers, pushing them down just enough to free his cock. He only took his fingers out of Mycroft to roll on a condom, and then he was guiding himself into the other man faster and harder than he normally would, but he knew Mycroft liked it rough, how he liked being bent backwards over his desk while he was at work. He kept a fast pace as Mycroft writhed and bucked beneath him.  
'Stop!'  
Greg immediately stopped and pulled away from Mycroft, worried. Mycroft rarely asked him to stop unless something was wrong, or he hurt him.  
Mycroft immediately reached for him, but it wasn't his hand he went for. Instead Mycroft unrolled the condom and dropped it on the floor, and only then did he look up at Greg, biting his lip, his eyes wide. Greg knew his face was questioning, but Mycroft nodded, and wrapped his long legs around Greg, pulling him closer.

#

Mycroft watched Gregory as he slowly entered Mycroft again, eyes fluttering slightly at the change in sensation. Gregory, Mycroft knew, had never been inside anyone without protection, and Mycroft watched his reaction. It had been a risky gesture, and for a second Mycroft thought Gregory might say no, but the lust that flooded his eyes was enough to make Mycroft wrap his legs around him.  
Gregory came with a shudder, and Mycroft felt the warm cum fill him, and then the slide as Gregory continued to move, riding out his orgasm as he leaned of Mycroft. Mycroft sped up the movement of his own hand, and seconds later he was spilling over his stomach, gasping out Gregory's name.  
He lay breathless with his eyes closed as Gregory gently pulled out of him. But his eyes flew open a second later at the feel of Gregory's tongue flicking across his stomach, and he watched in shock as Gregory lapped the cum off his skin. He'd never done that before either.

#

Mycroft was still thinking about it later that evening when he was in the bathroom, and his hand wrapped around his himself in response.   
There was a sound that made Mycroft open his eyes, and Gregory was standing in the doorway watching him, halfway ready for bed.  
'Don't stop,' he said, continuing to stare at Mycroft, eyes dark.  
So Mycroft didn't.  
Gregory didn't touch him, he sat on the edge of the bath and just watched Mycroft stroke himself, expression one of want, his own erection clear through the fabric of his trousers, only adding to Mycroft's arousal.  
It was only when Mycroft's breathing became almost desperate that Gregory spoke.  
'Come on me.'  
At the sound of those three words Mycroft's orgasm crashed through him, and he spurted across Gregory's neck and chest.

#

Greg stood to hold Mycroft, who was looking shocked at what he had done. But Mycroft put a hand to his chest to stop him, and then looked at Greg, eyes wide and dark, face flushed, and he held his gaze as he sank slowly to his knees and opened Greg's trousers and took Greg into his mouth.  
Mycroft rarely did that, and the sight of him staring up at Greg as he licked and teased was almost too much for Greg and he trembled, his legs threatening to give way.  
'Myc,' he warned, giving Mycroft time to move away and finish him with his hand like he always did. But Mycroft didn't pull away, instead he gripped Greg's hip tighter and swallowed when Greg came. His eyes never left Greg's the whole time.

#

Anthea walked into the office the next morning and sniffed the air and then she noticed the used condom laying on the floor under Mycroft's desk where it had been completely forgotten about the day before.  
'So we're back to this again,' she said aloud, and then sighed.

#

Greg and Mycroft were still in bed, Greg tracing patterns through the trails of semen across Mycroft's stomach. They were coated in it and slick with sweat. Greg breathed deeply.  
'Now I know why people do this.'  
Mycroft cocked and eyebrow, 'Sex?  
'Scenting.'  
'I've always thought it was a rather unsavoury concept.'  
'And yet here you are,' Greg nipped lightly at Mycroft's neck.  
'Yes,' Mycroft pulled at face, 'Who would have thought one man could produce so much ejaculate.'  
Greg licked the skin across the little red mark he had just left, 'Be nice or I won't do it again.'  
'Gregory, dear, I don' think even you could manage again. Five times in twenty four hours has to be some kind of personal best.'  
'It was an interesting night.'  
There was a pause, Mycroft seemed to know that Greg had something on his mind, and he waited patiently until Greg asked, 'Are we going to talk about the other thing. I mean, whether you want to use them or not, I don't mind. I just...well, we're not sleeping with anyone else, and thanks to Sherlock's sperm throwing incident we both know that we're...' he trailed off as Mycroft's hand tightened reassuringly against his arm.  
'You may have anything you want.'  
Greg flooded with contentment and he pulled closer to Mycroft. Because he knew those words were true. Mycroft would give him anything. And that was a strange and wonderful knowledge to have. They had pushed so many boundaries the previous night, and to wake up and know that your relationship had changed so much in such a short space of time was thrilling in a way Greg had never felt before.  
'I want to just lie here and smell my sexy husband.' Greg closed his eyes and was drifting off to sleep when Mycroft shook him awake urgently.  
'Get up, Gregory. We have to leave.'  
'Not working today, remember?'  
But Mycroft was already on his way to the bathroom, 'Sherlock's in heat.'  
Greg rolled over, swinging his legs out of bed, 'Shit.'


	37. Chapter 37

John was pacing protectively in front of Sherlock's door, snarling at anyone who tried to get close. The scent of an omega in heat was strong. John looked relieved to see Mycroft and Greg, but he frowned at Greg and Greg instantly knew why.  
Mycroft, as Sherlock's sibling wouldn't be affected by Sherlock's other than an increased urge to protect him, but John wasn't so sure about Greg, an adult alpha.  
'Well?' Mycroft asked.  
'Didn't really start properly until this morning,' John rubbed his hands over his face, 'It's been a long night.'  
Mycroft looked John up and down, taking in his appearance and altered scent. John scowled at him.  
'You don't need to deduce me,' he snapped, 'We all know I had sex with him. So just...don't.'  
'You didn't attempt to bond with him again?' Mycroft asked.  
'No,' John shouted, 'I do have some self control.'  
In the silence that followed Greg could feel Mycroft's shame and self-loathing, and he was angrier with John than he had been in a very long time. John had been one of the doctors who had operated on Greg when his own accidental bond went so horribly wrong. He knew why that had happened, and he should have known better. When Greg spoke his voice was very low and level,  
'The only reason you didn't just get a punch in the mouth is because we all know how bad things are right now.'  
Mycroft walked past John and into the room where Sherlock looked equally agitated, but he stilled slightly, as he always did when John was present. It was heartbreaking to see the way he shamelessly went straight to John and pressed close against his side.John rubbed his shoulder.  
'It's alright, love,' he soothed, and then turned to Greg, who was just settling himself into the chair, seemingly as unaffected as Mycroft. John asked him why.  
Greg opened his mouth to answer,but was cut off by Sherlock.  
'Can't you tell?'  
'Tell what?'  
'They've been scenting!' Sherlock spat the word as if it disgusted him.  
Greg shrugged, 'He's my mate and I can do what I like with him. But you do smell a bit...interesting right now.'  
John's eyes narrowed as if Greg was admitting an arousal, anticipating a challenge, even though they both knew that he wasn't.  
'You smell disgusting,' Sherlock retorted.  
'All right children,' Greg stood up from his chair, 'I'm going to take Johnny boy here for a coffee while you two geniuses have a chat.'  
He steered John towards the door, giving Sherlock a sympathetic smile as he passed.  
'He won't be far away.'

#

'Have you told Mary?' was Greg's first question as they sat down  
'Yeah. Well, I sent her a text. I couldn't face having to say it to her.'  
'What did she say?'  
'Nothing. She never replied,' he shrugged and picked up his cup, 'She'll know anyway, even if she wasn't able to feel what was happening, she's still a nurse. Sherlock went into heat while I was with him. She'll know.' His expression was wretched, 'I didn't mean to do it. I just couldn't stop.'  
Greg nodded, 'It's overpowering. It's why so many people take suppressants. And frankly, it can be dangerous.'  
Greg didn't mention the number of heat related rape victims he had seen over the years. He didn't need to.  
There was silence for a long time as Greg added more sugar to his coffee and accidently knocked John's spoon of the table. As he bent to pick it up the back of his jumper pulled down slightly, tugging uncomfortably at his throat. When he sat up again John was looking at him with a shocked face.  
'What?'  
'Your...your neck,' John managed.  
'What about it?'  
'That mark...I know what you were doing to get a mark in a place like that.  
John knew because it was almost in the same place as Sherlock's.  
Greg coloured slightly but shrugged.  
'First scenting and then this. You are a kinky man Greg Lestrade.'  
'It's nothing millions of other people don't do everyday.'  
'Alpha's don't,' he stared at Greg.  
Greg shrugged again, 'It was something Mycroft needed.'  
'Is everything okay with you two?'  
'Yeah. Just a bad case, you know how it is.'  
'Involving Mycroft?'  
Greg nodded, 'I can't say any more than that though.'  
John understood.  
'Okay, but you know you can't solve all your problems with sex, right?'  
'Speaking of which, what are you going to do about Sherlock's heat?'  
John sipped his tea, 'I might as well stay here. It's not like my wife is going to let me come home now that she knows about this.'  
'You don't have to. You can stay with us. There are people who could deal with Sherlock for you.'  
John laughed, but it was strained, 'You want me to stay with Mycroft while you two are exploring your new found sexuality and I phone around looking for prostitutes for Sherlock? Yeah, no thanks.'  
'Offer stands. What happened before with his heats?'  
'Well, for the last one he spent it with an 'old acquaintance' apparently, but he never had them when we were together. He was on suppressants and I didn't know. I always just assumed it was because all the drugs had messed up his system.'  
'Tough time to have one, going through rehab and all.'  
'That's why I won't leave him. If we hadn't had sex in the first place he wouldn't have ended up in hospital or here and he'd be free to spend his heat with whoever he chooses. But instead I'm here, trying to help by having more sex with him.'  
Greg chewed on his lip. He had to admit it was a bit fucked up, but he could see John's point.  
They finished their coffee and stood up.  
'Best get back before my mate kills your ma- oh shit! I'm sorry John, I didn't-'  
'It's fine,' John's voice was tight, 'It is what it is.'  
They walked back to Sherlock's room in silence where Sherlock immediately pressed against John.  
'I require John now,' he said pressing his face against John's neck.  
Greg had already noticed the increase in the intoxicating smell in the room, and he wasn't surprised that John was already helping Sherlock out of his clothes before the door even closed.

#

Anthea was waiting for them further down the corridor, frown on her face as she tried to stay as far away from the origin of the scent, and Greg couldn't help notice the way she clutched her blackberry too tightly. Alpha.  
'My brother is to have access to Dr Watson at all times. I want all the alphas on this floor relocated-'  
'I don't think you can do that,' Greg said, but Anthea shook her head.  
'Of course I can,' she responded in a slightly amused tone.  
'I want security on all the doors. And they are to be given as much privacy as possible, it's bad enough that everyone in the building knows what is going on already. Please inform my parents.'  
A thought struck Greg as John's words came back to him.  
'John said Sherlock spent hast heat with an old friend, and those two aren't known for being careful. If you get what I mean. And since Sherlock's been using again...' Greg thought back to the fresh track marks Sherlock sported.  
Mycroft inhaled deeply, 'And if you can arrange the relevant tests to be carried out on both of them. Then I want you to find out who this person is. Sherlock doesn't have old friends. At least not the sort we want him hanging around with now.'  
Anthea nodded sharply, blackberry already raised.

#

John hadn't given one thought to contraception since Sherlock went into heat. It wasn't until two beta nurses arrived to take blood that John felt his stomach clench. He was a doctor for fuck sake. Sherlock sat beside him, head lowered in shame, and too exhausted to do anything other than hold out his arm.  
When the door closed and they were alone again, John turned to Sherlock and looked hard at him.  
'You tell me right now if you know there is anything I should worry about.'  
Sherlock shook his head.  
'Jesus Christ Sherlock! We are idiots!'  
Sherlock said nothing.

#

Greg had once been called to collect John and Sherlock from the police station. John hadn't said what they had been arrested for, so Greg suspected it was something bad. It always was when John was vague.  
As he walked down to the holding cells he heard Sherlock yelling John's name, and he started to run, scrambling to get the door open, alarmed by the frantic sound in Sherlock's voice.  
Greg was expecting to see John collapsed on the floor. Hr was not expecting to see Sherlock pressed against the wall, legs spread as John pounded into him, his own trousers pooling at his ankles.  
'Christ!' Greg muttered and slammed the door shut again.  
As he drove them home later Greg gave them a long lecture about how unwise it was to have sex in a police cell an hour after being arrested for having sex in a changing room in John Lewis.  
John and Sherlock just sat in the back of the police car looking smug.


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh look...plot.

Mycroft heard the sound the moment he opened the door. It was low, but it sent a chill through him. He dreamed about that sound.  
Gregory was watching the recording of Mycroft's torture again.  
He look up as Mycroft walked into the room, pausing at the doorway, unsure. His eyes were fixed on the screen, face pale. Mycroft could feel his distress, with it's undercurrent of anger.  
'You don't have to watch that.'  
'Yeah, I do,' Gregory's voice was too rough. He'd been crying, Mycroft realised.  
Mycroft couldn't see the laptop screen, but he knew exactly what was happening. The sickening crack of bones and a scream. His wrist. Gregory closed his eyes for a second  
'How long did they have you like this?'  
Mycroft didn't want to tell him, didn't want to add to his shared pain. But he had promised to be honest.  
'It took Anthea eleven days to locate me.'  
The sound changed and Mycroft tensed slightly knowing that Gregory was watching as Mycroft's captors urinated on him. Humiliating him. Laughing as they did it. Hitting the man so hard they blinded him. Gregory started shaking and Mycroft walked over him, closing the laptop before reaching out for Gregory.  
Gregory held took hold of his hand, and turned it around, pressing a kiss across the healing bite on his wrist. The same wrist they had broken.  
'I love you,' he said quietly, not look up.

#

They had sat that night eating pizza and passing a bottle of gin around the room as Mycroft and Anthea explained in calm and even tones, devoid of any emotion exactly what had happened in Tehran.  
'If this gets out a lot of people will end up dead. Myself and Anthea included.'  
'Officially we were never there, the only people who knew are the ones in the recording, and most of those are dead. The mission itself was an act of treason. necessary and morally correct but treason non the less. Every agent we have would be exposed.'  
Greg set his pizza down, feeling sick.  
'Everyone would know exactly what your team do.' it wasn't a question.  
Anthea just nodded. She didn't have to explain any further.  
'Some of the agents on that recording are currently deep undercover. They would be be killed. It would expose their current missions and undo years of work. There is a strong potential for war.'  
'With who?'  
Anthea shrugged and picked a piece of pepper of her pizza, 'Take your pick.'  
'So...terrorism?'  
'Primarily. Negotiations are not always legal or honest. Sometimes alternative methods have to be employed.'  
'How did they get you?' Greg had asked.  
'One of our agents turned out to not be one of ours. They knew exactly where we were.'  
'And this Magnussen bloke holds all that power in his hands. To ruin all those lives all he has to do is make it public.'  
'We don't believe that Magnussen intends to do that, but we can't take the risk, and we can't allow him to have any sort of power.'  
Greg couldn't believe what he was about to say, 'Can't you...deal with him?'  
Despite the situation Mycroft quirked a smile.  
'Until we know who all knows about this, and how many copies of this exist, and more importantly, how a copy came to be in the hands of Magnussen in the first place, then having him terminated is not an option.'  
'We believe that one of our agents supplied the information, but we aren't sure who.'  
'Why?'  
'Aside from the agent found dead this evening, two more have been killed in the last few months. All unrelated events, and not unusual in our field of work.'  
Greg's stomach churned at Anthea's words, and he found himself looking at Mycroft. But he sensed there was something else to it even before Anthea spoke.  
'One of the team from Tehran has recently become reacquainted.'  
Mycroft gave Anthea a look that said she should say no more.  
Greg fell silent and tried to make sense of everything that he just been told.

#

Greg held took hold of his hand, and turned it around, pressing a kiss across the healing bite on his wrist. The same wrist they had broken.  
'I love you,' he said quietly, not look up.  
Mycroft looked down at him, 'I love you too.' there was a pause, just a heartbeat and then, 'I need to tell you something else. About Tehran.'

#

Gregory nodded in silence, waiting for Mycroft to speak, mind racing as he wondered how much more he could listen to.  
'Last week when we told you about the various agents, we told you an agent had recently become reacquainted. The agent in question is no longer part of any of our departments, she retired some years ago and until recently had been very much under the radar. A year ago she established herself in a position that was close enough to question.'  
'Have I met them?'  
Mycroft licked his lips and nodded.  
'It's Mary Watson.'

#

The world stopped for a moment, and Greg was glad he was already sitting down.  
Mycroft paused, letting the words sink in. But Greg was already running through everything that meant in his own mind.  
'She was part of our team, but she was not one of our agents. She was a foreign national and went by a different name then. She had a very particular skill set and connections with useful people.'  
Greg couldn't breathe, blood was roaring in his ears and he struggled to concentrate on Mycroft's words.  
'You let my friend bond with a...terrorist?' Greg said, because he knew all too well what Mycroft meant.  
'She was under surveillance from the moment she returned to London and not considered a threat. Her relationship with Dr Watson, and subsequent connection with Myself and Anthea was considered a coincidence. But now that the Magnussen issue has risen and agents are being killed, the remainder of that team are all considered potential rogues. That includes Mary Watson.'  
Greg just stared at him, frozen as he listened.  
'Should it turn out that Mary is involved then she is in a powerful position to take down everyone I know. And with recent events between Sherlock and Dr Watson, she could also take things to a personal level.'  
Mycroft paused and seemed to consider what he was going to say next as if unsure about it. Eventually he decided to voice it.  
'I did try to enlist your help to end the relationship. Sherlock was my primary concern at that time, but Mary Watson's history with myself was also a concern and another reason to remove her.'  
Greg thought back to Mycroft asking him to help break up John and Mary, and he sighed, thinking how much different everything could have been now. He closed his eyes and sighed.  
'You should have told me, Myc.'  
'I was unable to tell you at that time.' Mycroft's voice was full of regret, but all that did was make Greg angry.  
'John bonded with a terrorist,' he repeated, barely able to force the words out.  
There was a long pause before Mycroft spoke, his voice quiet and pained.  
'So did you.'


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My poor boys

They hadn't spoken for the rest of the night. Mycroft sensed that Gregory needed space while he processed things. He left him in the study and retired to the living room to read some reports.  
A while later he heard the sound of jeers and the crack of leather against bare skin as Gregory watched the recording again and he closed his eyes.

#

It was late when Greg climbed the stairs. Mycroft was already in bed, curled up on his side, but Greg knew he wasn't sleeping as he climbed in beside him. He knew Mycroft was frightened. Frightened that this was one secret too man. That Greg would leave.  
But Mycroft was always scared that Greg would leave. Greg could feel it every time Mycroft looked at him. The fear in his eyes every time they had a fight.  
He threw arm over Mycroft and heard him give a stifled sob. He pulled in close to Mycroft and pressed his forehead against the back of his neck and let the other man cry silently as he wrapped around him.  
'You should have told me,Myc,' he whispered.

#

Sherlock came with tears streaming down his face and John wrapped his arms around him to support him.  
'I hate this,' Sherlock choked out.  
'I know,' John soothed into his hair, 'But it'll be over soon.'  
They both ached, raw and sore and exhausted, bodies scratched and bruised, both just wanting it to be over.  
'You don't...' Sherlock couldn't breathe, '…it doesn't have to be you.'  
'Yes it does,' John breathed into his hair, and tried to keep his voice light, playful, 'Who else would have you?'  
He realised how stupid the words were when Sherlock's shoulders shook. He sighed.  
'Come on, try to get some sleep while you can.'  
Neither of them slept, but they didn't move or speak until Sherlock gave another whine and they knew it was starting again.

#

Greg pulled Mycroft closer, leaning against him, his whole body pressed against Mycroft's back.  
He licked a soft line across Mycroft's bond mark, feeling the other man stir slightly in his sleep. Greg wasn't interested in sex at that moment, he just wanted to let Mycroft know that he was still there.  
As Mycroft settled back down again, Greg splayed his hand across Mycroft's chest, feeling the reassuring beat of his heart against his palm, and he thought about how lucky he was that this amazing man was still there so he could be part of Greg's life.

#

Sherlock's heat ended the next day and he collapsed onto the bed and curled himself into a ball, not caring that he was covered with bodily fluids and wet with sweat. John lay down beside him, feeling his pain and wanting to be close to him. That was how Greg found them when he arrived at the hospital, completely naked and filthy, pale with exhaustion and tangled around each other, lost in a deep sleep.  
Smiling sadly at the sight, Greg pulled a blanket over them and then left to go and tell Mycroft.


	40. Chapter 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anthea makes friends.

'No one is coming for you...'

#

Greg's hand on Anthea's shoulder surprised her, and she jerked slightly as she looked up at him. Greg bent down and pressed a light kiss to her forehead.  
'Thank you for going to get him,' he said in a low voice that only they could hear.  
Anthea sat in silence until Greg was almost out the door, and what she said then almost broke Greg's heart.  
'He's my best friend.'

#

Mycroft closed his laptop and sat in silence for a few seconds. He had only opened the CCTV to watch Gregory leave. But now his hands were shaking and his heart was racing. Slowly he got to his feet and pulled his coat on to leave for the day, suddenly determined to be home when Gregory finished work.  
He paused as he passed Anthea's desk and she looked up at him expectantly.  
When she saw his expression her face changed slightly, and she looked uncertain for a moment. But she held his gaze and Mycroft tried to put all of his thoughts and emotion into his expression. Anthea read him like a book and her hands trembled slightly where they still rested on her keyboard, a soft, closed mouth smile half lighting up her face.  
'Goodnight, sir,' she said.  
'Goodnight, dear.'

#

Anthea waited until she closed the door on the newly refurbished ladies room before leaning back against the wall and allowing a few tears to escape. Then she angrily swiped the back of her hand across her eyes before checking her makeup in the large mirror and striding back to her desk.  
Slamming her laptop shut she picked up her bag and walked to the front of the building where a car was already waiting for her.  
'Where to, Ma'am?' the driver asked.  
Anthea thought for a second, emotions overwhelming her, and she realised she too needed to spend the evening with a friend. She called up the current locations of those on her watch list and scrolled through them.  
'The Flute and Lemon, please.'

#

Anthea had only just entered the pub when a hand was raised, waving her over.  
Molly Hooper was sitting with one of the detectives from the Yard. Dimmock, her brain supplied. Young, blond, reckless. Harmless. Surprised to see her. Recognition flashing across his face. There was no need to introduce them so Molly didn't bother.  
'Joing us,' Molly encouraged, and then shocked that she'd made an offer to an alpha like that her face flushed and she stammered, 'T-that is, if you aren't meeting someone.'  
'No, I just finished work.'  
Molly smiled in sympathy.  
'Drink?' Dimmock asked before she even sat down.  
'God yes,' Anthea shrugged off her coat as Molly giggled, 'Red, please.'  
When Dimmock went to the bar Anthea glanced across at Molly, 'Am I interrupting your date?'  
'Oh, no!' Molly clutched her wine glass, 'I'm not on a date. We were just at the morgue and maggots always make him crave spaghetti hoops and here they'll put them on a baked potato for you-'  
Molly stopped, flushing red and dropping her gaze, but Anthea was laughing.  
'Spaghetti hoops out of a tin?' she asked.  
Molly nodded, embarrassment radiating from her. But Anthea was already leaning back in her seat, trying to catch the eye of one of the waitresses.  
'Do you think they'll put cheese on mine?'

#

Anthea laughed around her forkful of cheap pasta and overcooked potato as Dimmock finished telling them about how he'd managed to order five male strippers to the Yard Christmas party.  
'Some of those ads are slightly misleading,' he said, face red, lifting his pint.  
Anthea raised her fork and pointed at him, 'Okay, I've got one!'  
Molly glanced across at her expectantly, her own dinner being carefully dissected with her fork.  
'I once accidentally ordered a missile strike on Alaska when I was trying to order takeaway.'  
Molly laughed and then covered her mouth with her hands and dropped her gaze, face red. Dimmock on the other hand whistled through his teeth and laughed loudly. The beta was endearing. He'd spent twenty minutes shyly telling them about his beta boyfriend, and Anthea could already tell they'd make a good match. Two betas usually did.   
In unison they both turned to Molly, and the timid omega looked startled by the attention.  
'What?'   
'What's the worst thing you've done at work?'  
She glanced down into her wine glass for a moment.  
'I helped Sherlock fake his death.'  
Dimmock looked surprised, but Anthea shrugged.  
'We all know that, tell us something fun!'  
Molly looked flustered and then she ducked her head and took a long drink of her wine.  
'I might have left a set of surgical clamps inside a cadaver.'  
Anthea raised her eyebrows as Dimmock laughed and Molly squirmed.  
'Or several,' she added, gaze flicking to Anthea before returning to her food, 'And I'm not entirely sure that Mr Hope was dead.'  
Dimmock looked horrified until Anthea pointed her potato laden fork at him.  
'Dancing penises,' was all she had to say.

#

When Greg let himself into the house that night, he was greeted by the smell of warm takeaway and good wine. He followed it through to the kitchen where Mycroft was barefoot and jacket-less, sleeves rolled up and skin slightly flushed from the several glasses he'd already had and the challenge of navigating soft noodles from container to plate.  
'You're home early,' Greg said.  
'I heard what you said,' Mycroft's hands stilled against the counter.  
Greg stepped forward until he was almost pressed again Mycroft, 'Good.'  
He pressed a single kiss against the side of Mycroft's neck, just under his ear. The he lifted a plate from the counter and wandered through to the living room where he settled on the sofa and waited for Mycroft to join him. When he did, he pulled Mycroft's legs up until they draped across his lap, and they sat like that, watching News 24 until they both fell asleep.

#

Greg felt slightly unsettled when he walked into the home office the next morning, and it took him a long time to work out why, and when it hit him he couldn't understand why he hadn't realised before. Anthea was sitting at Mycroft's desk wearing jeans and an oatmeal jumper that dwarfed her small frame, making her look vulnerable and young. The swinging pony tail probably helped too.  
'It's my day off,' she said without looking up from her blackberry, 'I'm only here for an hour.'  
'I hate it when you read my mind.'  
'Tough.'  
Greg laughed and headed for the door to Mycroft's office, 'Nice jumper.'  
'Thanks. I stole it from Dr Watson.'  
Greg stopped, 'That was you? He's been complaining about that for weeks.'  
'I've been replacing them.'  
'Them? How many did you steal?'  
Anthea glanced up, a smile playing across her face and batted her eyes innocently, 'Just nine.'

#

The strange thing about some of John Watson's ugly jumpers was that they looked quite nice on a female frame. Anthea and Molly had been sharing the spoils. Molly had acquired three warm coloured jumpers that hung off her shoulders in a sexy way that was foreign to her and an oversized maroon cardigan, slightly stretched and soft with washing, that looked great over practically everything. She may have also stolen a checked shirt that was shoved at the back of the wardrobe. Anthea would never tell, never even admit to being there.  
Anthea treated it like a great game and arrived each time with an excited smile and a Harrods bag in her hand, from which she extracted expensive looking jumpers that she quietly hung on John's side of the wardrobe.  
'Company clothing allowance,' she explained when she saw Molly looking, 'And Mycroft's Visa.'  
They considered giving Sherlock the Evil Christmas Jumper to experiment on, but in the ended decided on a ritualistic burning accompanied by a lot of red wine.


	41. Chapter 41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something lighter to break up the angst of late.

Anthea opened the door to Mycroft's office.  
'Sally Donovan has met with MI6.'  
Mycroft nodded.  
Anthea paused, and then said, 'You're aware that she is a murderer?'  
Another nod, 'Only you and I know that, although I believe Gregory may have worked it out.'  
And that was all there was too it. Neither of them had a problem working with murderers. They did it every day of their lives. After all, they worked with each other.  
Anthea lifted Mycroft's empty coffee cup and walked out.

#

John stayed at the clinic with Sherlock for another few days, once again declining Greg's offer of a bed. The staff were clearly unhappy about it and it was against procedure, but who argued with Mycroft Holmes? A man who devoted a huge amount of time and money and government resources to make sure his brother was looked after. Greg just wished that Sherlock would understand that one day.

#

Greg had been forced to call Mycroft many times over the years to inform him of his brother's latest antics and sometimes ask him to send bail money, often Sherlock could be heard ranting in the background.

'He was firing guns inside his flat...'  
'It's my flat!'

'He was trying to steal a manta ray from the aquarium.'  
'Borrow!'

'He was caught performing an autopsy at Barts.'  
'Well it's not difficult!'

'He broke into MI5 again.'  
'I was testing their security.'

'He did steal a manta ray from the aquarium.'  
'He was perfectly happy in the bath!'

'He walked into Harrods naked.'  
'I had a sheet!'

'And apparently three star fish. He's now banned from the aquarium.'  
'Massive overreaction!'

'He's banned from Harrods.'  
'I was wearing my coat!'  
'You were only wearing your coat!'

'The drugs squad found heroin in his sock drawer. And a human hand defrosting on the draining board.'  
'That's my hand!'

'Your brother and Loverboy are armed and running around London handcuffed to each other.'

'He was trying to collect urine sample from an elephant. He's now banned from the zoo.'  
'I was contributing to science!'  
'They warned you after that time with the penguins!'

'He's high and handcuffed to a set of railings.'  
'I can undo my own cuffs!'

'He and that new doctor friend of his were climbing up the outside of a block of flats.'  
'It was for a case.'

'He and John were drunk and threw up in someone's flat.'  
'There's no need to shout!'  
'Shut up Sherlock.'

'He threw a man out of a window.'  
'He threatened Mrs Hudson!'

'He was caught using my warrant card again.'  
'You shouldn't leave it laying around!'

'He needs to learn that the 'lick and it's yours rule' does not apply to evidence.'  
'Says who?'  
'Or body parts.'  
'I lick John's body parts and they are mine!'  
'Sherlock!'

'Will you remind your brother that he's banned from Thames House?  
'They're still enforcing that?'

'They were having sex in a changing room in John Lewis.'  
'Does this mean we're banned from John Lewis?'

'He got on the Tube covered in pigs blood. Carry a harpoon.'  
'None of the cabs would take me!'

'He was high and punched an officer in the face.'  
'It was only Anderson!'

'He blew up his flat.'  
'It's my flat! Why does he never understand that?'  
'Because blowing up your flat is bad.'

'He made Molly Hooper cry.'  
'That's not a crime!'  
'No, but I might punch you and then I'll get arrested. It's you or me!'

'He's banned from the Natural History Museum. Don't ask.'  
'Science!'

 

Greg had a lot of history with the Holmes brothers. Two of them anyway.  
Laying in bed that night, both of them quiet, Greg asked Mycroft about his older brother.   
'Where is your other brother now?'  
'Currently Argentina.'  
More silence.  
'How did you know he was my brother?'  
'You know how.' 

'Go left! Left!'  
'Pick him up!'  
'Holmes!'  
Two men turning. Same eyes. Brothers.

'His name is Sherrinford. He's a year older than I am. I didn't want to take him, but I needed someone I could trust.'  
'What happened?'  
'It was on another assignment. He made some bad choices and his team killed. No one knows he's still alive. My colleagues and superiors are under the impression that I shot him. I had full approval to do so, and we were never close. No one questioned my actions.'  
'Jesus, that's cold.'  
'Where do you think that awful nickname came from?'  
The Iceman. God how he hated that because of all it stood for. It was whispered through the ranks of each agency he worked for. Everyone knew what he did, and people looked at him with new respect and fear. He got a promotion after that.  
'Do you're parents know?'  
'They are aware that something happened and Sherrinford is in exile, but they do not know what. I update them when I can, but they won't speak of him for fear of giving something away. It's better that way.'  
They lay in the dark in silence for a long time.  
'I'm sorry,' Greg said quietly.

#

Greg didn't usually carry a gun, but that was because he spent a lot of time with Sherlock and his sticky fingers. But he started arming himself, praying that he would never need it.


	42. Chapter 42

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is so short, but I really just didn't know where to take it after this scene.
> 
> And sorry for the hefty update - but it may be the weekend before I get a chance to post again.
> 
> xx

Sherlock slipped into one of his depressions and refused to leave John's side for a second. When John had to go to the bathroom, Sherlock went too. If John was on the bed, Sherlock was wrapped around him. If John sat down, Sherlock climbed into his lap. It was difficult and frustrating, but it was part of being an alpha. Instinctively you protected an omega, especially one you had an attachment to.  
That didn't stop other alphas reacting to Sherlock. On those occassions when they had no choice but to leave the room, any alphas they encountered could circle around Sherlock protectively, sensing his distress and being able to smell why. But they wouldn't come close, not with the scent of John all over Sherlock.  
Sometimes, when Sherlock was particularly bad, a passing omega would reach out and and touch him, just a brush before moving on, sometimes not seeming to realise they had done it. Those touches helped calm Sherlock and John was grateful for them.  
But it was John that Sherlock needed. So it was John who stayed with him.  
Sherlock spoke only three words for the next two days, and John knew they would stay with him. He was sitting on the bed with Sherlock curled into a tight ball beside him, his face buried in John's jumper as John stroked his hair.  
'Does it still hurt?'  
'Yes.'  
John cradled this other arm around Sherlock's back, stroking calming motions down his spine. They sat like that, Sherlock sometimes shaking, but mostly just laying very still with his eyes closed.   
'You don't have to go through that again if you don't want to. We'll work something out. I promise.'  
When John brushed his fingers along Sherlock's cheek, pushing his hair back off his face, Sherlock sighed softly.  
'My John.'


	43. Chapter 43

Terrorism.

Greg sat in his glass office, cold coffee at his elbow and his inbox open in front of him, lost in thought.

He'd been replaying that conversation with Mycroft over and over for days. He didn't think that Mycroft was a terrorist, but _Mycroft_ thought that Mycroft was a terrorist, and something about that made Greg uneasy. Someone had once told him that there were terrorists on both sides, which had made sense at the time. But he'd never really thought about what that actually meant in reality.

He knew, of course, that there were political assassinations, strategic bombings, retaliations, negotiations. But somehow he'd ever thought of it as being terrorism if it was for _his_ country.

Mycroft worked in a shadowy area that Greg had always thought bordered the line between necessity and opportunity.

Greg had once sat opposite him at dinner as he ordered an assassination. He'd overheard things, dark and secret things that hinted at something much bigger than Greg could imagine. He knew that sometimes Mycroft did things...Greg closed his eyes and the Tehran recording played through his mind, not wanting to know what other similar missions Mycroft had been on. Not wanting to picture Mycroft in the field, gun in hand, or sitting in his office plotting the trajectory of a missile. He didn't want to think about the innocent people who'd been caught up in Mycroft's work.

Sometimes over the years he had wondered if he even knew Mycroft at all, but then he could _feel_ Mycroft's feeling and he thought he could. Thought he was the best man he'd ever known.

Then along came the Magnussen case and suddenly Greg was questioning everything. But one thing he was certain of now.

There _were_ terrorists on both sides.

 

#

 

'It's _your_ fault!' Sherlock roared, and there was a crash as something hit the wall.

Anthea approached, raising her eyebrows at Mycroft who was standing outside the door to Sherlock's room, leaning on his umbrella and looking distinctly unamused.

'My brother and Dr Watson appear to be having a little _domestic_.'

'My fault? _My_ fault?'

There was the sound of something being kicked over. It sounded expensive.

It seemed that normal service had resumed.

'You jumped off a fucking roof! And THEN pissed off for two years!'

'Oh, are we back to this again?'

'Fuck you!'

'Again?' Sherlock sneered.

At the sound of a meaty thump Anthea glanced at her boss.

'Should we intervene?'

Mycroft shook his head, 'Best to let them work out their differences.'

'Oh! Oh! Sherlock Holmes gets stinking high and doesn't take his suppressants and because I _happen_ to be the one here, I get the blame?'

'I can't take my suppressants _and_ the chemical treatment to break our bond!'

'Why not? You take everything else.'

A glass hit the wall and Mycroft pursed his lips.

'This _not_ my fault Sherlock!'

'You chose _her.'_

There was a moment's silence and then the door opened and John Watson stormed out, not even noticing Mycroft and Anthea waiting in the hallway.

 

#

 

Sally Donovan was still at her desk at almost midnight.

The man from MI6 had been very clear that the murdered agent's occupation should not be made known. He had also informed her that the suspect would also be an agent or connected with the agency. She would not reveal that information in her reports. The case was to be treated like a straight forward murder investigation, but she was to tailor her reports and evidence as necessary to provide the relevant cover.

A phone number had been provided for her.

'Only your mobile can call this number. Only use it when absolutely necessary.'

There was a pause before the agent spoke again.

'It is likely that more of our agents will turn up dead. I have been informed that you will be able to tell who they are, and why their connection is significant.'

Sally frowned, 'How would-oh.'

Suddenly she knew _exactly_ how she would know.

'Should this happen, the same procedure will be put in place.'

'Serial killer then...I don't...'

'No. Serial killers attract attention. Until the suspect is apprehended, we can provide you with identities. Individuals to play that part.' The man had leaned forward slightly, 'I trust you understand the importance of this job?'

Sally nodded.

'Very well. We'll be in touch.'

Now, sitting at her desk in the empty office, Sally pulled up the footage she had been given, she ran it again, concentrating on each face that passed in front of the camera, committing them to memory, and frustratingly aware that there were others present that remained out of shot.

She leaned back in her seat and sighed in frustration.

She was so out of her depth.

'Sal?' Greg asked from her side.

 

#

 

He'd had the blinds in his office closed, dimming the light in order to help ease the headache. His superiors had been sympathetic, but his case load had still built up while he spent so much time bouncing between hospital and the clinic and he had a mountain of work to do, in addition to the Magnussen issue that was occupying most of his brain power.

Then he heard it.

The sound was faint, but it was a sound that had been playing over and over in his mind of late, and his blood ran cold.

Staggering to his office door, he spotted Sally Donovan leaning over her computer, a frown on her face.

'Sal?' she didn't see him until he was beside her, and she instantly shut down the video, her face flashing panic, and then something else...understanding.

Greg paused, wanting to say something, but nothing came to him. Instead he just nodded at her and carried on across the office towards the door, deciding that he'd had enough for one night.

 

#

 

They hadn't had sex in nine days. Not since the night they scented each other.

Every night Gregory lay in bed beside him, possessive arm around him. But Mycroft could feel Gregory's distance, could sense how he was thinking about things, and how his thoughts about Mycroft had changed.

There were no kisses. No affectionate gestures or words.

They didn't talk about. A cold part of Mycroft said there was no point talking about _feelings_ when there were more urgent matters at hand, and so instead he threw himself into work. His hours became longer, his time at home less and less until he barely saw Gregory.

It wasn't that he didn't want to be around him, because he wanted nothing more than to lean against him and breathe him in. But there was work to do, and caring was not an advantage.

 _Except,_ said a treacherous voice in his head, caring was _exactly_ what made this case so important.

 

#

 

It was almost three am before Mycroft got into an empty bed, only to be woken an hour later by a heavy weight beside him and Gregory's scent filling the room. He waited for the press of Gregory's arm around him, but it didn't come. Instead Gregory lay on his side, facing the other way and falling asleep almost instantly.

 

 


	44. Chapter 44

'You're losing him,' Sherlock sneered at Mycroft.  
Mycroft rolled his eyes dramatically. But at the same time he was wondering where Gregory had been in the hours since he left the office at midnight and he came home at four. He hadn't smelled like anyone else, but he had carried a weariness about him.  
'Brother dear, the day I take relationship advice from you will be a sad day indeed.'  
Sherlock straightened his cuffs, 'Have you solved the Magnussen case yet?'  
His tone had been casual, but his body language showed how very desperately interested he was. Even still, Mycroft had been unprepared to hear those words out of his brother's mouth.  
'And what do you know about the Magnussen case?'  
'I know enough to know that you are out of your depth.'  
Mycroft narrowed his eyes, 'You are to stay away from that man. He is more dangerous than you can imagine.'  
'You are the most dangerous man in the world,' Sherlock smirked, 'And I can still beat you in a fist fight.'  
'These are not games, little brother. Magnussen destroys people.'  
Sherlock rolled his eyes, 'Destroy my reputation?' he asked, on the verge of laughing, 'Oh dear, how ever would I cope with that?'  
'I mean it,' Mycroft stood to leave, lifting his coat from the back of the chair.  
'He won't stay,' Sherlock said to Mycroft's retreating back, 'You're not a couple. He's too moral. Too....good.'  
'Evening Sherlock,' Mycroft's voice was calm.

#

Gregory was on the phone, talking quietly in French. His father then. His mother preferred to use English as often as possible, 'to keep my hand in, darling.'  
Mycroft loved it when Gregory spoke French, and although he tuned out the words, giving Gregory privacy, he listened to rise and fall, the rhythm of his speech and the soft, affectionate tone he was using.  
He remembered the first time he had heard him do so. Mycroft had taken him out to dinner at a small, exclusive place he was fond of. He started to regret it the second Gregory picked up the menu and frowned at it. But Gregory kept silent, not looking up as Mycroft ordered the wine. When the waiter returned to take their order, Mycroft ordered for himself and then glanced at Gregory, uncomfortable. Realising his mistake and not wanting to embarrass him.He shouldn't have brought him somewhere like this where no one spoke English and the menu was indulgently ostentatious.  
'The steak is-'  
But Gregory cut him off, looking directly at the waiter and ordering in perfect, conversational French. Mycroft had watched, enraptured, as Gregory had asked questions about the fish dishes, and the vegetables they served with the scallops. When he finally ordered, and the waiter had left, Gregory looked surprised to see Mycroft watching him.  
'I didn't know you spoke French,' Mycroft said.  
'I don't speak French,' Gregory shrugged, 'I am French. I do speak English though. Don't let the accent fool you.'  
Lestrade. Of course.  
The loudness of Mycroft's laugh had surprised them both.  
When Gregory's sister would visit, the siblings slipped easily between languages, seemingly without realising they were doing it. As a result, occasionally in the past Mycroft would start a conversation in French to see how long Gregory would respond before he realised. Gregory would automatically answer, and after a few moments he would realise, stop and laugh at Mycroft.  
It had been a nice game. One they didn't play any more.  
Mycroft wondered when the last time they had laughed and relaxed like that. What did they even do any more apart from work. Once upon a time there had been dinners, and theatre and lazy, hard won, afternoons in their pyjamas, or playful arguments over who was cheating most at poker.  
Perhaps Sherlock was right.  
With that thought on his mind Mycroft went to hang up his coat and toe off his shoes. When he came back, Gregory had finished his conversation and was sitting on the sofa, already pulling a case file towards him, the tension back in his shoulders.  
Mycroft wanted to say something, to talk to him, to make things better again. The way they used to be. But he couldn't find the words to say it, didn't know how to start a conversation like that. Didn't know how a conversation like that would end, and terrified of all the possibilities.  
In the end he could think of only one thing.  
He leaned over the back of the sofa and pressed a kiss to the top of Gregory's head.  
'I love you.'  
Gregory leaned back, tipping his face up to look at Mycroft with surprise and...confusion.  
Mycroft stepped back, trying to control his facial features, to hide his disappointment. Gregory was already on his feet, feeling everything Mycroft was in a sharper way than they had lately. He sighed and pulled his husband into a tight hug.  
'Come here you daft sod.'  
Gregory didn't let go, and after a moment Mycroft started to relax against him.  
'Tell me what's wrong.'  
'It'll all different,' Mycroft said.  
'Us, you mean?' even as Mycroft nodded, Gregory was already speaking, 'No, it's not.'  
'We don't talk, we don't laugh, we don't have sex. Ever since you found out what sort of person I am, you barely even come home, and you're smoking again.'  
Gregory pushed Mycroft away, holding him at arms length so he could look at him, soft lines around his dark brown eyes.  
'On one of our first dates I asked you a question, do you remember what it was?'

'So,' Gregory looked up from his lasagne, 'How many people have you killed?'  
Mycroft found himself surprised, a rare occurrence in itself. But the directness with which Gregory had delivered the question, and without assumption, was the most startling. The man asked the question in the same voice he asked about the weather.  
'Directly or indirectly?'  
Gregory just looked at him.  
Mycroft lifted his glass of water, not taking his eyes of Gregory's, almost challenging him to see what he was going to say next.  
'How's your fish?' Gregory smiled at him then, one of his bright, open smiles.  
Mycroft never did answer the question.

'I know what sort of man you are,' Gregory said softly, 'I know the sort of things you do, and I know why you do them. I've always known. And I'm still here.'  
'But recently-'  
'Things have just been a bit intense, Myc. That's all. We seem to spend all of our time bouncing between work and hospitals, and Sherlock, and Mary and Magnussen...and I'll be honest, seeing that tape really shook me up,' Gregory's breath hitched slightly and his grip on Mycroft's arms tightened.  
'It scared me. And what you said...what you said made me think about a lot of things. That's all. It didn't change how I feel about you.'  
His voice was so sincere, the love there so clear and honest that it made Mycroft want to cry.  
'You didn't hold me in bed last night,' it came out without Mycroft meaning it to, in a quiet, pathetic voice that was not his own.  
For a second Gregory stared at him, then he laughed and pulled him in closer again, wrapping his arms around him.  
'Oh, Myc,' he kissed Mycroft's temple, 'If you want, or need something, don't wait for me to figure it out. You can come to me. If you need something then take it, and if you aren't sure, then say so. I'm not a Holmes. I'm a normal person,' Gregory laughed softly, 'Try to remember that we aren't all mind readers like you.'  
'Sherlock said I was losing you.'  
'Well you're not.'  
'He said you were too good, too moral a man to be with someone like me.'  
'And next time he asks me to fake an alibi or talk the desk sergeant into letting him out, or covering up murders I will remind him of that.'  
Mycroft didn't say anything, but he could feel his face flush. Gregory's settled into a resigned expression.  
'I know all about John killing that cabbie,' he tilted his head as if reading Mycroft's mind, 'And I know that Sally killed the guy who tortured us.'  
'Ah.'  
'I know I should have arrested her, but to be honest, I was quite...proud of her. Relieved actually. And I've been thinking about that a lot over the last couple of days, and I know now why you do what you do, why you sometimes blur the lines, sometimes just leap clean over them. Sometimes doing one bad thing prevents someone else doing a hundred bad things. And that's what you do, you and Anthea and people like you. You stop the hundred bad things from happening.'  
He kissed Mycroft lightly, just a gentle, reassuring brush across his lips, and then he sighed.  
'Your brother has a lot to answer for.'  
'He said we aren't...' Mycroft stopped, the words choking him, 'Said we aren't a couple.'  
Gregory kissed him again and steered him towards the stairs, 'It's late, come on,' halfway up Gregory spoke again, 'Maybe we aren't a couple. I don't know if there is a word for what we are. If there is Anthea will know. I'll ask her in the morning.'

#

By the time Mycroft finished in the bathroom, Gregory was already in bed, sprawled on his front, face buried in the pillow, clad in only his bottoms. Mycroft climbed in beside him, and Gregory moved to shuffle across and reach for him. But Mycroft moved first, pulling in close and wrapping himself around his husband. Gregory sighed in contentment.

#

In the morning there was a single text message on Greg's phone.

_Panoply._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Panoply - a complete sey


	45. Chapter 45

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to take a deeper look at Anthea and Mycroft in this chapter, so it's a bit devoid of our boys. But I felt it was something that tends to get overlooked, after all, Anthea is, basically, his confidante, his sidekick, partner in crime, best friend. She arranges his life,and that actually makes her more important than he is. Because he might be the British Government, but she is the one who controls his schedule. And I kinda like to think that they go way back, which might explain why, in this 'verse at least, Mycroft is so tolerant and indulgent of her outbursts, so, I give you buddy!Ancroft
> 
> If that's even a thing.

 There had been a subtle but obvious change coming over Anthea in recent weeks. She was leaving work on time at least one night a week, and had an air of excitement about her that Mycroft hadn't seen in her in years.

He'd taken a look at her records, and noted that the driver dropoffs had been in some interesting parts of town, mostly outside pubs and restaurants that were of a much lower class than she usually frequented. Her charge card saw less action at La Perla and Prada, and more in men's wear at Harrods. It took Mycroft less than a second to put everything together, and he smiled. Everyone should have a hobby.

 

#

 

Gregory arrived to meet Mycroft just as Anthea was leaving for the night.

'Goodnight, sir,' she said, then nodded at Gregory and left, her heels clicking on the tiles.

There was a sudden rush of realisation and Gregory laughed.

'When she calls you 'sir', she doesn't really mean it, does she?'

Mycroft smiled, surprised that Gregory had worked it out so fast. Even Sherlock hadn't figured the situation out yet.

'No,' Mycroft admitted, 'It's more of a name than a title.'

'Why?'

 

#

 

A small bedroom in Qatar. A man trying to stop the bleeding in his side caused by a rogue piece of shrapnel, and a woman trying to raise help on her radio. Outside, the sounds of sirens and gunfire.

'Anthea, dear, would you mind passing me another cloth?'

'There aren't any more, Holmes,' her voice was strained as she tried another channel, glancing out the window, gun in one hand, radio in the other, her long hair escaping the neat braid it had been in just hours before. She was sweating, beads running down her neck, streaking the dirt on her skin. But she didn't notice. Didn't care. She was solely focused on her job.

'Mycroft,' he said, voice raspy from dehydration, 'How many times?'

'I'm not calling you that,' she said, moving away from the window and turning the dial to the next channel.

'It's my name.'

'It's a stupid name,' she didn't look up from what she was doing, but Mycroft couldn't help but give a snort of laughter, wincing as the pain in his side increased when he did.

Anthea heard the change in his breathing, and looking over she frowned at the bloody cloth he was pressing to his side. She set down her gun and radio unstrapped her bullet proof vest and peeled off her shirt, leaving her standing in her bra. She threw the shirt at him with a tiny smile.

'Hold this against it. _Sir.'_

 

#

 

South Georgia.

Dinner party for diplomats prior to trade and travel negotiations.

A beautiful brunette in a red dress, hair swept back into a graceful knot, took the elbow of a striking man with auburn hair and storm coloured eyes in a tailored grey suit, steering him across the room confidently.

'Mr Nymark, you simply _must_ meet my colleague Mycroft Holmes. Mr Holmes is Britain's cultural attaché on this visit. Mr Holmes, Mr Nymark represents one of the French Belgian trade alliances. My French isn't what is used to be (Mycroft had to stifle a smile there,Anthea's French was better than his) but some of his ideas are simply inspiring.'

'Pleased to meet you,' Mycroft held out his hand.

Anthea smiled at them both, and then made a show of looking over her shoulder and sighing, 'If you'll excuse me, it seems I am needed in the Ante Room. Sir.'

 

#

 

Washington.

A box sat on a desk in the hotel room. The label neat, slanted script.

If it had been any other day, any other handwriting, any other _message,_ Anthea would not have opened it. But she was reassured by what she saw.

Inside were a pair of earrings. Silver drops with a single, elegant sapphire stone. Anthea looked at them for a long time. She didn't think anyone would know. Remember. Much less put all the information together.

September. Sapphire....birthday.

She looked at the message again.

' _Dearest Anthea, happy birthday, much love, Sir.'_

She wore them to dinner that night with the state senator. Mycroft looked softly pleased when he noticed, until Anthea pinched the inside of his arm as they were led to their table.

'It's a bit creepy when you call yourself that.'

 

#

 

Slovakia.

A woman is held tight, a knife to her throat. On the other side of the room three of her team lay down their weapons and backs away as instructed. She rolls her eyes. This was not the plan. She can feel her captors breath against her cheek, warm and sticky. She wants to gag and scrub herself clean. He just laughs and starts to back away.

A door opens, a tall red haired man is walking towards them.

There is interest from her captor. He wants to see what this man will do. What this man will sacrifice to ensure the woman came to no harm.

He paused.

But the red haired man didn't. He walked on towards them, and as he did he pulled his gun and shot the man in the head suddenly and without hesitation. Before he had even collapsed, he turned to the three others and shot the third man between the eyes with a practised shot.

'That's your mole,' he said, gesturing the fallen man. Then he turned to the woman, who was rubbing her neck, a small trickle of blood already staining her shirt.

'Are you alright, dear?'

She nodded, rubbing at her neck.

'I could use a tissue, sir.'

 

#

 

Uzbekistan.

A man hunched over the toilet in his hotel room, heaving. A woman kneeling beside him, pressing a damp towel to the back of his neck.

'I told you that you can't eat that much dairy, Sir.'

 

#

 

Iraq.

A woman was trapped under fallen masonry, bleeding profusely from a deep head wound. A man, ignoring his own injuries to pull her out, dragging her as far as he could manage before collapsing beside her the sound of the medical helicopter loud in their ears.

'Thank you, Sir.'

 

#

 

Libya.

A woman pacing a conference room, casting glances at the briefcase on the table in the centre. A knock on the door.

'A man,' says a voice on the other side.

'Name?'

'Mycroft Holmes.'

'No.'

Immediately there were shots, and then silence. She went back to pacing. An hour passed. Then two.

A knock on the door.

'A man.'

'Who?'

'Says his name is 'Sir.'

Anthea sighed in relief and opened the door.

 

#

 

Tehran.

A man is on the ground. Bloody, beaten. His legs broken, every inch of purple skin stinking of someone else's urine. A quiet plea for it all to be over. A gun shot. And another. Five. Seven. He lost count. People running past his line of sight. Good boots. Military issue. Voices that spoke English, but in a variety of accents.

_'Go left! Left!'_

_'Pick him up!'_

_'Holmes!'_

He stirs at the name, but can't respond as hands grip him and he is dragged away, crying out as the movements cause him pain. He wakes in the back of a truck, the metal cool against his beaten skin. There are figures above him, on the edge of his line of sight, but one figure is leaning over him, rubbing something cool across the welts on his skin. She sees him looking at her and although she smiles, she looks sad.

'Sorry it took so long, sir.'

 

London.

There is a bomb under the Palace of Westminster. The House is full for an all night sitting. Only two people in the room know. One of them takes the other by the elbow and speaks quietly into his ear.

'Sir,' Anthea leaned over Mycroft, speaking quietly, 'You're brother and Dr Watson have been seen entering Westminster Station.'

 

#

 

London.

A woman leans over and kisses the cheek of the man in front of her, smiling a broad, open smile that was seen by so few people these days. She tightened her grip on his hands and she did so, eyes flickering down to the ring on his finger. When she looked up again her face was beaming with delight and undisguised pleasure.

'You look quite magnificent, dear.'

She kisses his other cheek.

'It looks good on you, sir.'

 

#

 

'Oh dear God,' Anthea mouthed as she held up a pair of green corduroy trousers with wide eyes. John Watson had left them over the chair in the shower room at the clinic when he went to wash. Molly, hovering in the doorway, keeping watch, silently handed her the pair of fine wool trousers, made to fit John and two hundred pounds a pair. Anthea carefully laid them over the chair and then replaced the rest of John's clothes on top. Her movements were silent, the sound of the shower masking any unintentional sounds.

She rolled the offending trousers up and secreted them in her handbag. They were going on the to-burn pile.

 


	46. Chapter 46

John slammed the box of antibiotics on the table and tried to keep his voice down.

'I'll fucking kill him!'

Greg laughed into his pint, only stopping when John glared at him.

'To be fair,' he said,'Give his history, you're lucky you only got clap.'

'Tell the whole world, why don't you?'

'Well, it's is pretty funny that the great Dr Watson caught and STD from his junkie ex-mate from having unprotected sex in a rehab centre.'

Even as he said it, Greg started to laugh again.

'You're a real dick,' John snarled.

'Come on, I'll get the next round.'

Greg had taken an irate John away from the clinic for a few hours while Mycroft stayed behind to give his brother a lecture on sexual health. He was sympathetic to John's predicament, but at the same time couldn't help but find it amusing.

'And you're trying to tell me that you're always careful?' John had shot back.

Greg felt his face colour, 'Well, we...we don't...it's a new thing, but...'

'And you have the cheek to lecture me?'

'Well, we both got tested after Sherlock threw all that cum at me.'

John looked sick, 'In the blue tub?'

Greg nodded and took another sip of his drink.

When John didn't say anything, Greg looked up at him, 'What's wrong?'

'That was mine.'

Greg gaped at him until he finally burst out, 'Jesus John! I got that in my mouth!'

 

#

 

An hour later they were sitting under a heater in the beer garden so Greg could have a cigarette.

'Does Mycroft know you're back on those?'

Greg just gave him a look, and John nodded knowingly.

'Of course he does. God, that's something I don't miss.'

'Smoking?'

'No,' John lifted his glass, 'Having your whole life laid bare. Not being able to have any secrets. God, can you imagine what it must have been like for their parents when they were young? Trying to hide Christmas presents and things.'

Greg laughed at the image of a young Mycroft and Sherlock deducing their gifts.

'I still can't really believe you two are actually together.'

'Yeah. Sometimes neither can I.'

'Three years,' John shook his head in awe.

'Technically if you count the time we dated before...well, before _the bonding incident_. Although we've only been back together for six months.'

'And already a married man. It'll be kids next.'

'No it won't.'

'Sherlock wanted kids,' John said suddenly, not looking at Greg.

'Oh? I didn't know.'

'I wasn't ready. I always thought it would be down the line a bit, when Sherlock had been clean for long enough that I knew he'd stay that way. When he eventually worked out how to use the vacuum, that sort of thing. I was sort of coming around to the idea.'

'What happened?'

John shrugged, 'He jumped off a bloody roof, that's what happened.'

Greg took one last drag of his cigarette before stubbing it out, 'Well that killed the mood. Come on, let's get another one.'

 

#

 

Mycroft sighed when John and Greg staggered through the door to Sherlock's room. Sherlock was already asleep, which was unusual.

'You're drunk,' it wasn't a question.

'Yes,' John said quite proudly.

'We went to the pub and I think I had sex with John, but I'm not really sure.'

Mycroft stared at them, 'Excuse me?'

'Was John's...man juice that Sherlock threw at me,' Greg tried to explain, 'And since I had some of it in my mouth, does that mean I had sex with John?'

'I certainly hope not.'

'Me too.'

'Hey!' John looked offended.

'You're a ver' attractive man, but not as handsome as ma husband,' Greg nodded sagely and then smiled at Mycroft, but John had already lost interest and instead was prodding at Sherlock.

'What's wrong with him?'

'He got quite agitated and they had to sedate him,' Mycroft explained, already standing to collect his coat and to take his drunk husband home.

It took John two attempts to climb into bed beside Sherlock, and in the end he gave up and dropped down into the chair Mycroft had just vacated.

'I think I'mma bit drunk,' he blinked up at them with unfocused eyes.

Greg pushed him back in the chair and put a blanket on his lap. Then he kissed the top of John's head.

'Shh!' he said, 'Go to sleep tiny man.'

'Where are you going?'

'I'm going home to do naughty things to my gorgeous mate.'

Mycroft steered Greg out the door by his elbow.

'That's what you think,' he muttered darkly.

 

#

 

Gregory was already asleep on top of the bed, still half dressed, when Mycroft finished locking up. He smiled indulgently at him and climbed in beside him, hestitating for a second before wrapping an arm around him. Sensing Mycroft there, Gregory snuffled closer to him. Mycroft breathed in the scent he would never get bored off, feeling the steady beat of Gregory's heart and thought about what Anthea had said.

A complete set. That's what she called them. Perhaps she was right.

Gregory. Good, kind, moral, impulsive, emotional.

He had seen the dark things that Mycroft did, the secrets he kept, the lies he told. Mycroft had hurt him, over and over. And yet, here he was still. Mycroft did the most terrible things, and every night Gregory lay beside him, forgiving and full of love.

Oh, that didn't mean he wasn't angry. Sometimes it radiated off him with an intensity that frightened Mycroft, and every day he expected it to be the day he came home to find that Gregory had finally left. But he didn't.

The coldness and distance around them lately had shaken Mycroft to the core. The thought of not having Gregory any more terrified him. It had taken so much for him to finally allow Gregory in, that he couldn't contemplate going back to a life without him.

It shouldn't have worked. Two alphas together. But with Gregory he did things he'd never imagined. And it wasn't just sex. Mycroft found that he wanted to be held, wanted to be touched. When Gregory came up behind him, Mycroft no longer flinched as instinct told him to. Alphas don't turn their backs. It's too vulnerable. Too submissive. But every night Mycroft found himself curling his back against Gregory's side. Even now, with Gregory's back pressed against Mycroft's chest, it didn't feel wrong, like it should have.

Then there was everything else. The laughter, the comfort, the way Gregory had shown him that he could have more to his life than just work and solitude. He'd shown him that he had friends, that he could that sort of life. That he wasn't alone.

He would never understand what someone like Gregory saw in someone like him. Light and dark.

Mycroft pressed a kiss to Gregory's shoulder.

Panoply.

 

 


	47. Chapter 47

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And a tiny little chapter.

John couldn't put it off any longer. He went home for more clean clothes, despite Greg offering to do it for him.

'She might be there. Are you really ready to face her?' Greg had asked.

John just shrugged, 'Have to do it at some stage,' he said.

Now that he was climbing the stairs to his front door, he wasn't sure.

He'd spent almost two weeks at the clinic with Sherlock, and now that he was back at his flat, everything smelled strange. There was a wrongness to it that he couldn't place. His own scent was still there, but it was faint. It didn't seem to cling in the way that it had when he'd left Baker Street, it wasn't ingrained in the way it had been when he'd lived with Sherlock.

The rooms felt foreign, a fact that was only reinforced when he opened his wardrobe to find most of his clothing had been replaced.

'Alright,' he snarled to the empty flat, 'What the _fuck_ is going on?'

 

#

 

Mary knew someone had been coming into their flat. They left behind a scent that was slightly familiar, but she couldn't place it. It carried soft notes of John, and also Sherlock. Which meant it was someone they knew. She assumed John had been sending someone over to collect clothes for him, whoever had been in hadn't broken in, they'd had a key. It wasn't Greg, she would have been able to tell. Perhaps it was that doctor, or that sergeant from the Yard. Mary didn't know either of them enough to be sure. It was a female though, that much was certain. Expensive perfume.

And great taste in clothes if the new jumpers hanging on John's side of the wardrobe were anything to go by. They were soft and in tasteful colours that John would never had picked himself, but which Mary could tell from a glance would look great on him. So whoever it was had been shopping for John.

At least she knew he wasn't seeing another woman. She'd let out a bitter laugh when she realised that, but it hadn't made the Sherlock situation any less painful.

John had text her twice. Once when Sherlock's heat started, and once when it had finished. She hadn't responded, and he hadn't tried again.

She just hadn't known what to say to him, and there was nothing he could say that was going to make it any better. She'd known when she got the first text. Of course she had. She knew what it really meant, and she had been forced to sit alone for days knowing what her husband was doing with someone else, and there was nothing she could do about it. Because she actually understood, in a twisted sort of way. She was a nurse, she knew all about the effects of heat and the loss of control. Even if John had wanted to, he couldn't have resisted it. Especially when it came to Sherlock. If it had been anyone else, _anyone,_ then maybe, just maybe he might have been able to. But not Sherlock. And the painful thing was that Mary knew that, and she couldn't even blame John.

 

#

 

John packed a bag quickly, moving from room to room to gather the things he would need for a few more days. He hated what he was doing, but in the back of his his mind was the fact that Sherlock was back at the clinic on his own, waiting, and needing. He was in the bathroom, throwing shaving things in on top of his clean underwear when he heard Mary's key in the lock.

He took a deep breath and stepped out of the bathroom just as she came into the bedroom to see him with the bag in his hand.

Her expression turned unbelievably sad for a second, and then she forced herself to recompose, looking John square in the eye.

'Are you leaving me?'

The force of the question hit him with a savage blow, and he just stared back at her as he tried to reassure her, tried to tell her that he was just helping Sherlock, that he would be home soon, that he was sorry and that he loved her.

Instead he said, 'I don't know.'

 


	48. Chapter 48

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The very last part of this is an EXACT conversation I had with a friend once upon a time. It's an image I don't think I will ever beable to shake.

Greg was reading through one of Anderson's reports when the knock at his door came.

'Sal?'

She hovered uncertainly for a moment, 'Can I talk to you?'

'Of course,' he indicated the chair opposite him, and she sat down, perched on the edge. Greg had seen those signs in her before, and he frowned.

'What's up?'

She took a deep breath, 'That recording...'

'Hmm.'

'I don't think you were supposed to see it. There was a bloke from...well, and this woman...I don't think you are supposed to know that I've seen it...' she broke off, chewing her lip nervously.

'Sally, I've already seen it. I know about the case and I know what you've been told to do. It's okay.' he looked her square in the eye, 'I was the one who made sure you got assigned this case.'

Her eyes opened wide in surprise.

'So if you see something, or hear something, it means you're trusted with it. Mycroft trusts you with it. _I_ trust you with it.'

'Even after...you know.'

Sherlock.

Greg nodded, 'Especially after that. You looked at everything. All the evidence, the things that were missing. You asked questions. You looked at the bigger picture.'

'But I was wrong.'

'We were all wrong on that one. But that's Sherlock for you. He's a devious little bastard,' they both smiled, 'It's how you work. Bit by bit. Question by question. Methodical. That's what we need. That's why I chose you.'

'But Gregson is-'

'Technically in charge, yeah,' Greg shifted, this is where he was uncomfortable, 'But we both know that this is _your_ case.'

Greg reached out and squeezed her shoulder.

'You'll do fine.'

 

#

 

Mycroft looked down at his plate, he had been making small talk about Sherlock and work, but it was clear his mind was elsewhere. Greg set his glass down and waited until Mycroft realised he had stopped talking. When Mycroft's eyes finally flicked up to meet Greg's, the other man just stared back expectantly until Mycoft spoke.

'I've been asked to sit in on the Magnussen inquiry.'

'Inquiry?'

Mycroft nodded, 'There is to be an investigation into claims of blackmail of prominent political figures.'

Greg's stomach lurched, 'Do-do they know about you?'

Mycroft shook his head.

Clearing his suddenly dry throat, Greg tried to sound positive, 'Well, that's something.'

There was something in Mycroft's posture that set Greg on edge.

'You're not going to do it, are you?' a slight flinch told him all he needed to know, 'Mycroft! You can't. You'll risk exposing everything.'

'But if I don't do it, too many questions will be asked. Either way there is a risk of exposure. At least this way there is also a chance of stopping him.'

'A bullet in the brain would stop him,' Greg muttered, which got a small smile from Mycroft.

It wasn't much, but it was something.

 

#

 

'Now you look like a girl who has the weight of the world on her shoulders!' Dimmock looked like he was about to kiss Anthea's cheek, but then he thought better of it.

'Busy day,' she said, sitting down opposite him, just as Molly returned from the bar.

'Oh, I didn't see you come in,' she said, giving her that smile that was both pleased, and nervous about being pleased.

'She's stealthy like that,' Dimmock said, and Anthea couldn't help but smile.

Molly asked about Sherlock, and then Dimmock launched into a story about a murder suicide he'd attended that afternoon, which was inappropriately amusing and likely would have horrified anyone else in the room had they known what the three people in the corner was laughing about.

 

#

 

'Does Anthea seem a bit off to you lately?' Greg asked as they got ready for bed that night.

'Compared to?'

Greg shrugged, struggling to unbutton his cuffs, 'I dunno. Like she's happy, but really sort of anxious at the same time.'

Mycroft seemed to be appraising him, for he stared at him for a long time, a thoughtful look on his face.

'Very few people would have noticed that. I dare say we are the only two who have,' Mycroft carefully closed the trouser press – an object that still made Greg laugh every time he walked into the bedroom, for who actually _owned_ a trouser press? But then, Mycroft also dressed alsmost exclusively in bespoke three piece suits and carried an umbrella with him everywhere he went. All he needed was a bowler hat and he could be the poster child for the 1930's, 'I suspect it has to do with her new friends.'

'Are we talking 'friends' in a sinister way?' Greg had spent enough time with Mycroft to know that word could mean many things.

'I believe she has been spending some time with Dr Hooper and Detective Inspector Dimmock. They like to go for drinks at... _The Flute and Lemon.'_ Mycroft sneered the name of the pub, and Greg smiled.

'Not jealous are you?'

'Don't be ridiculous.'

Greg leaned over and kissed Mycroft's cheek, reassuring him as he would a child, 'You'll always be her best friend.'

Mycroft frowned at the patronising tone in his husband's voice, 'That's not what worries me.'

'It'll be good for her to have more than just me and you, to make some friends.'

Mycroft gave him a sad look.

'The last time she made _friends_ didn't work out too well.'

'What happened?'

'They all got shot.'

 

#

 

When Anthea left the others to go to the bathroom, she closed her eyes for a second to compose herself, taking stock of the thoughts in her head before.

Friends. Tehran. Magnussen. Friends. Tehran. Magnussen. Tehran.

One step forward and then one threat and one reminder of how it could all go wrong again.

 

#

 

The following morning Mycroft glanced through the papers on his desk. Since he was called to be part of the Magnussen inquiry, his personal security had been increased. As had Gregory's and the occupants of Baker Street. Mary Watson was under constant observation. He noted that Anthea had also taken it upon herself to request low level surveillance on Dr Hooper and DI Dimmock. She had forged his signature on the request, but Mycroft found that he didn't mind.

This case was about more than just him.

 

#

 

'John!'

John jerked away at the scream of his name and looked up to see Sherlock wide-eyed in the doorway, his hair dishevelled and his eyes wide. John was on his feet in an instant, hand automatically reaching for his gun, realising too late that it was locked in the bedside cabinet.

'What's wrong?' he demanded as Mycroft's security staff started to appear behind him. They _did_ have their guns.

Sherlock took several deep shuddering breaths as he struggled to speak.

'My poo is _black!'_

There was a moment of complete silence, and then John started laughing, dropping back down onto the chair, tears of mirth rolling down his face at Sherlock's frightened innocence.

'John, you aren't taking this seriously!' Sherlock shouted, thrusting out a hand towards John, 'It's _black!_ Look!'

 


	49. Chapter 49

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can I just stress, I was NOT the one holding the...you know. :)
> 
> Thanks as always for the lovely comments and kudos. You guys are amazing. Not too much more to go with this one, we are suprisingly near the end. :(

Sherlock was let home after a four week stint in rehab. John had spent much of the time since Sherlock's heat sleeping on the uncomfortable chair in the corner of the room and refusing to look at any more of his faeces.

'It's still doing it!'

'Iron tablets, Sherlock,' John didn't even look up any more when Sherlock came running back from the bathroom.

'I'm constipated, John! It's not coming out.'

'Oh, it is,' John snarked after spending an hour in the middle of the night listening to Sherlock as he looked his symptoms up on the internet.

Occasionally, when Sherlock was having a bad night, John would climb in beside him and hold him until he settled. But as the days went on, those occasions became fewer. When the day came for Sherlock to go back to Baker Street, John hovered uncertain of his place.

'Are you getting in or not?' Sherlock snapped from inside the waiting cab. He had shunned Mycroft's offer of a car, and Greg's offer of a lift in favour of his preferred form of transport, and had swept inside in a swirl of coat and scarf, leaving John to heft his bag into the bag.

With a sigh John settled in beside him, keeping his gaze fixed on the passing scenery.

'I've asked Mrs Hudson to air out your room,' Sherlock said, texting furiously on his mobile.

'Oh,' John tried not to sound as surprised or hurt as he felt.

'Something wrong?' Sherlock flicked him one quick glance before returning his attention to the small screen.

'Um....no,' he blinked, 'I just...um...I just thought-'

'I really don't think that would be wise,' Sherlock cut him off, 'Ah. We're here.'

Nothing ever changed inside 221B. The clutter, the strange, lingering chemical smell, Sherlock's scent permeating everything.

Sherlock didn't even wait for John to enter the flat before he'd slammed the door to their- _his_ \- bedroom. John stared at the closed door for a long time before he set Sherlock's bag down on the living room floor, and slowly carried his own upstairs to his old bedroom.

It looked exactly as he'd left it. In fact, it looked exactly as it had the last time he had slept in it almost four years ago, before he'd moved downstairs to Sherlock's room.

He sat on the edge of the narrow bed and took in the bare walls and the functional carpet, silently surprised that Sherlock hadn't turned it into a laboratory or something. He hadn't expected to sleep in their old bed. Not really. He hadn't known what to expect. Until half an hour ago he hadn't even known which flat he was going back to, or if he was going to have to suck up his pride and ask Greg if he could stay with him and Mycroft for a night or two after all.

As much as he was relieved that he didn't have to share a bathroom with The Iceman, he wasn't sure how he felt being back at Baker Street. He knew one thing for certain, it couldn't be a lasting arrangement. If nothing else, he needed to work out what was happening with his marriage.

He hadn't spoken to Mary since the day he collected clean clothes. He just didn't know what to say to her. He didn't even know what he thought about it all, and until that point, things were just...just.

No, he thought, standing up, it was better that he was upstairs in his old room. But right now, he needed tea.

 

#

 

There was something soothing about the process of tea making that allowed John to switch his mind off for a few moments. It must be how Sherlock felt when he played his violin. Familiar, comforting. Something he didn't have to think about, just instinctively allow his hands to do.

Mrs Hudson had restocked the fridge, leaving the reciept on the table along with a stack of post that had accumulated during Sherlock's rehab. John idly flicked through it, looking for anything that might be urgent, final demands, or, more likely knowing his ex mate, court summons. Sherlock wasn't particularly good at keeping track of bills and paperwork because they were _boring._

John allowed himself a small smile at the thought of Sherlock's previous filing system which had basically consisted of a stack of bills pinned to the mantle with a knife. But he frowned when he came across a large, white envelope with his name on it. It was registered post, and had been redirected from his and Mary's address. The signature was hard to make out, but it looked like Mrs Hudson had signed for it.

Setting down his cup, John opened it.

He read the contents twice.

Then he went to find Sherlock.

 

#

 

'What's this?' John didn't knock on Sherlock's door before he walked in.

Sherlock didn't even look away from the mirror as he adjusted the collar of his shirt.

'I would suspect that would be my petition to revert to my own name.'

'I read that,' John leaned forward slightly, struggling to stay calm, 'I just don't understand why?'

'Well, John, even with your significantly lower IQ, you must have realised by now that we are no longer mates, and therefore it is no longer appropriate that I continue to use your name. As you gave it to me in the first place as my _alpha,'_ there was no disguising the derogatory tone in Sherlock's voice, 'Then I apparently have to petition you to be allowed to change it. So much for omega rights.'

That had always been a sore spot for Sherlock, torn as he was between his omega side loving the concept of ownership and belonging, and his... _Sherlock_ side rebelling at the very thought of it. But somehow John hadn't even thought about Sherlock's name in all the time since he had come home, not even when he was signing the papers to confirm Mary's name. As a beta she didn't have to take it, but she'd wanted to, and he'd wanted her to. And perhaps that had as much to do with his alpha side as it did about his feelings for her. He wanted, _needed,_ that sense of ownership too, just from a different perspective.

'I mean,' John licked his lips, aware that Sherlock still hadn't looked at him, 'I mean, why now?'

'I couldn't very well have done it while I was dead, that would have given the game away.'

John felt like he'd been punched in the gut.

'You wanted to do this when you were...away?' he whispered.

'Yes,' Sherlock tossed over his shoulder as he reached for his coat and gloves, 'Of course.'

He looked at John then, his face relaxed, eyes slightly questioning, as if wondering what John's problem was, and then he was brushing past him.

'I'm going out,' he called, 'I won't be back for dinner.'

The front door slammed behind him, leaving John standing alone in the silent flat.

 

#

 

_Mr William Sherlock Scott Watson (nee Holmes), Om, petitions Captain Dr John Hamish Watson, Al, for permission to revert to pre-bond name (Holmes) in all legal capacities from this point forward._

 

It listed their respective addresses and dates of birth. Under reasons it simply said ' _unbonded.'_

 

_#_

 

 _'_ Sherlock Watson sounds ridiculous,' Sherlock pouted as he and John had leaned over the papers at the registry.

'Well I can't be John Holmes,' John had laughed, pen in his hand, waiting to sign the papers.

'Why not?'

'Because that's not how it works.'

'But what about The Work?' Sherlock had cried, much to the amusement of the clerk overseeing things, 'No one will know who Sherlock _Watson_ is! My whole reputation, John!'

'Only you would be more worried about your public persona than your mate,' John had sighed and shook his head, practically throwing the pen at Sherlock, 'Fine, be Sherlock Holmes for the public's pleasure,' he'd snapped, 'Do whatever you want, you always do.'

That gave Sherlock pause. It wasn't like John to give in so easily. He'd been expecting a much bigger fight. He went to glare out the window as Sherlock scribbled his signature, waiting while copies were made and stamped. Sherlock pocketed the envelope with their copy and they hailed a cab for home.

The celebration that night was muted, a takeaway and a quiet drink with Lestrade, Molly and Mrs Hudson. Mycroft had declined the invitation, citing work, which usually meant something, somewhere was in danger of imminent missile strike, so John wasn't too put out.

Their guests left early, sensing the slight tension. John locked the door behind them as Sherlock headed for the kitchen to check on some cultures in the fridge. Pulled open his pyjama drawer and found a stiff white envelope sitting on top of them, the script flamboyant and graceful. It simply said 'In private.'

John opened the envelope and pulled out the thick cream paper, noting the official seal and stamp, and his own signature and name that he had filled in just hours before. He pursed his lips before his eyes flickered across to Sherlock's signature, and then he stopped, heart swelling with a sudden rush of love as he noticed the same Sherlock had written beside it.

_William Watson._

 

#

 

'I mean,' there was a hesitation in John's voice that only strengthened Sherlock's resolve to not look at him. He knew if he looked at him, John's expression would crumple and Sherlock couldn't face that. He was doing this _for John._ 'I mean, why now?'

And because he was doing it for John, he gave the most hurtful reason he could think of, knowing that anything else, anything that would give John hope, would not be in John's best interests. He hated hurting him, but he knew that John needed clean breaks if he was ever going to work out what he wanted. Sherlock put on his most bored voice, the one he used to use on Lestrade at crime scenes.

'I couldn't very well have done it while I was dead, that would have given the game away.'

There was a soft intake of breath and then silence. Sherlock focused on his reflection, carefully controlling his features, using every ounce of self control to keep his hands from shaking and to stop himself from flinging himself at John.

'You wanted to do this when you were...away?' John whispered.

'Yes,' Sherlock tossed over his shoulder as he reached for his coat and gloves, 'Of course.'

 _NO!_ His mind screamed, the pain of his lie making him feel physically sick. _NO.Nononononono._

He hadn't wanted to do it all. He still didn't.

Sherlock needed to get away. He could feel John's hurt eyes on him, and he felt claustrophobic, his mind fighting his body's omega instincts, and he knew if he didn't get away from John, John's scent, the flat right then, that he never would.

Relaxing his face as much as he could, and reminding himself that this was for John, he turned tilting his head as if asking John what his problem was, a look he had acquired from Mycroft and had perfected over the years. But the look on John's face was more than he could cope with, and Sherlock didn't wait for an answer, instead he pushed past him, staggering blindly for the door.

'I'm going out,' he called, some part of him, even now, not wanting John to worry, 'I won't be back for dinner.'

 


	50. Chapter 50

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long - a combination of personal issues and computer problems (turns out laptops don't like being covered in vodka. sigh) as a result this story took a rather dubious turn. But to hell with it. I've gone with my gut so far and its been ok.

*TRIGGER*** Okay, I'm not sure about this chapter, it took a long time to write, and it doesn't paint John in a particularly nice way ay points, and here are some elements of Dub Con which might make people uncomfortable.

　

　

　

CHAPTER

　

'Anthea finds it difficult to make friends,' Mycroft confessed suddenly over dinner one evening.

Greg looked at Mycroft but knew enough to know to stay silent. A couple of years ago he would have quipped that there were reasons for that (icy demeanour, overattachment to her Blackberry, inability to look people in the eye), but now that Greg knew her better, and knew more of her past, he had a good idea why Anthea kept to herself. But he also knew that Mycroft needed to say it, so he sipped his water and let him speak.

'She had a somewhat difficult childhood. Really quite brilliant, but struggled academically, which frustrated her and led to her teenage years becoming somewhat challenging for those around her. You'll have noticed that Anthea has her own way of working that is often at odds with those around her and at times extreme?'

Greg smiled slightly, 'Bit like someone else we know.'

Mycroft lowered his gaze lest the brief flash of fondness in his eyes be seen, 'Quite.' a deep breath, 'We were assigned to a team together for a mission that, while short, was complex and required a particular attention to detail. Anthea was, on paper, the perfect one to provide support, but other agents found her difficult to work with. My superiors thought I would be a good fit. They were right.'

'The Iceman and the Drama Queen,' Greg smirked, which got a smile from Mycroft, but which he knew Anthea would make him pay for later.

'I found the best way to encourage Anthea's talents was to do what I never did with Sherlock, that is, to simply let her run with it. We fell into a nice groove, and while there have been small upsets along the way, for the most part we have always worked well together. She remained on my team for the duration, and when I changed agency I took her with me.'

There was a change in the tone and Greg knew that the story was about to take a less than pleasant turn, and he set his glass back down, preparing himself.

'Overtime she settled considerably, finding her natural balance. Others grew less wary of her and she started to make friends with some of the others, in so much as one can make friends when working in that sort of environment. And then Tehran happened.'

'And because one of those friends turned out to not be a friend, the rest of them got killed,' Greg realised, and Mycroft nodded.

'She didn't bother trying again after that, until now.'

'What changed?' Greg was smart enough to know that people didn't usually change ingrained patterns of behaviour overnight, but he wasn't expecting Mycroft's answer.

'You.'

'Me?'

Mycroft's lips stretched into a slight reflective smile, 'You started playing with her.'

Greg laughed, 'That sounds really wrong when you say it like that. It was just a couple of texts, some help with the crossword, stupid stuff.'

'Stupid stuff that showed her that she could have some sort of relationship with another person, even if it was sending obscure words via text, or finding ways to intercept and relay messages. They challenged her, allowed her to show her own brilliance and to dictate the pace and proximity of a friendship.You took time with her, got to know her, made her think that it is possible to have something of her own, and although I'm wary of her new interactions with Dr Hooper and DI Dimmock, I'm pleased too.'

'I told you, you don't have to worry about them. Bit of a strange group to assimilate into,' Greg admitted with a laugh, 'I'd love to be a fly on the wall at some of their nights out.'

'Yes, I believe there may be some crime involved at points.'

Greg just smiled and said nothing.

#

There were voices floating down from the flat above him when John arrived back. He sighed. The last thing he wanted to deal with was a client. It seemed he was in luck though, because whoever they were, they seemed to be leaving. John stood to one side to allow a tall, braod man with striking eyes to pass him with a friendly nod. If he noticed John's sudden scowl then he didn't react to it.

John burst through the door to find Sherlock just picking up his violin.

'Who was that?' he snarled.

'A friend.'

'Why does he smell like you?'

'Really John, even with your limited intelligence you should be able to deduce that.' Sherlock turned away and started to play, but John wasn't finished.

'I don't fucking believe this! I just left my _wife_ for you!'

'Perhaps you shouldn't have.'

Even John was surprised when he swang his fist, and in the silence that followed he and Sherlock just stared at each other until Sherlock calmly went back to his playing.

#

John paused in the act of making tea when Sherlock came into the kitchen. The taller man was still unerringly calm, but John's anger had been allowed to build for the last hour.

'Did you fuck him?'

Sherlock just stared blankly as if he didn't understand the question, before returning to his search for biscuits. John grabbed his arm and spun him around so they were face to face, John pinning Sherlock against the counter. The taller man's eyes darkened as John repeated his question.

'Did. You. Fuck. Him?'

Standing so close John could feel the unmistakable buldge of Sherlock's sudden erection. But Sherlock just nodded.

'Yes.'

John pressed against him, leaning his full weight on Sherlock, who parted his lips slightly.

'You will not do that again.'

'John-'

'No. Never again,' John was breathing against Sherlock's skin, and then suddenly they were pulling at each other, hand reaching for belts. But John stopped Sherlock, pushing him forward to the table and forcing him over it onto his stomach. Sherlock let out a hiss of surprise and thrust his hips back towards John eagerly.

'No,' John put a hand on his back to steady him, forcing him to stay in place, while the other hand undid his trousers, 'You better have been careful, Sherlock,' he fumbled for a condom, 'Sherlock?'

'Yes,' the man beneath him groaned.

The omega was open and wet, and the sight would normally have had John fighting off the urge to come. As it was he wasn't going to last long, and if Sherlock's impressive errection was anything to go by, then neither was he. But John wasn't feeling accomodating, selfishly driving himself into Sherlock at a frantic pace, enjoying every one of the grasps and moans that came from Sherlock's mouth He came hard and immediately pulled out of Sherlock, drawing a gasp of pain that he was too angry to care about.

'No, you can't have your name back,' he breathed, and stalked from the room. When he returned Sherlock was just started to raise himself up, 'And you can stop taking these.' John threw the box of pills Sherlock had been taking to break their bond and they landed on the table. John left the room again, leaving a slightly dazed Sherlock standing in the middle of the kitchen with a painfully hard cock and looking rather pleased for a man with his trousers pooled around his ankles.

#

Sherlock went to bed sore, and listened to the sounds of John pottering around the flat. He waited for the familiar tread that signalled John heading upstairs, and was surprised when the door to his room opened instead. John threw his shirt into a corner before stepping out of his jeans and sliding in beside Sherlock before the other man could respond.

'If you think I'm going back to sleeping upstairs then you have another thing coming. And frist thing tomorrow we are ordering a new matress.'

Sherlock just nodded in the dark and they fell into silence for a long time. There would be no cuddling. It was not going to be that sort of night, and Sherlock had the feeling that it wouldn't be for a long time to come.

'I don't want to see that man here again,' there was anger in John's voice, but sadness too, which Sherlock had not been expecting. He nodded again, 'Sherlock,' John prompted, 'I need you to actually say the words.'

'Yes.'

'I don't want him around you. Okay?'

'...okay.'

'Did I hurt you?' John's voice was full of concern, 'I saw some blood on the towel in the hamper.'

'No,' Sherlock lied, because although John had hurt him a little with his sheer force, Sherlock had found he liked it. And that required some more thought.

#

Over his lunch break John ordered the new matress and vowed that Sherlock _would_ be helping to carry it up the stairs.Mary was working, but she and John avoided each other sucessfully, bar one slightly awkward moment as they passed each other in the hall. By the time he finished work, John was ready for a drink, and he called in to see Greg at the pub.

'You look like you had a rough night.'

'Worst weekend in a long time,' John sighed, 'I think it's off with Mary, and while I'm out at the shops, Sherlock's got a strange bloke round for a shag.'

'The same one-?'

'Must be. Although he could be running a whole string of them and you know, the more I find out about his sex life, the less that would surprise me.'

Greg waited expectantly.

'What?' John asked.

'Go on, you've got that look that says you haven't even got to the worst bit yet.'

'I punched him.'

'What happened then?'

'Well, we had some really rough sex, I yelled at him for a bit and then commandeared my side of the bed again.'

'How very alpha of you,' Greg's tone was slightly disaproving, and it just made John feel worse.

'I know. But God, Greg, you should have seen how he reacted, he really got off on it. He had this look about him that was all really wild and excited, like he'd been waiting to see what it would take to get me to react.'

'You two make me and Mycroft look normal and settled.'

John sighed, 'I'ts been rough. I might have ordered him to come off the chemical treatment again.'

'Ordered?'

'Yeah. I was shouting a bit and might have thrown them at him. I'd rather he went back on his sppressants. Fuck knows he can't take another heat.'

'The price you pay for being with an omega.'

John pulled a face.

'I'd better get back, God knows what trouble he'll have gotten into while I've been out.'

#

Normally, when it came to John, Sherlock liked The Shouting, because The Shouting led to The Sex, which was never a bad thing, and Angry John was amazingly rough and certain when it came to The Sex. In the past Sherlock had enjoyed annoying John just enough to reach that point where frustrations met, and he'd become skilled enough at doing it that often John forgot what he was angry about completely, which was good for both of them, because sometimes Sherlock needed angry sex and sometimes John just needed to have a little bit of a shout.

But that night it was clear that The Shouting was not one of those times where The Sex would be on offer afterwards. John was standing over a shaking Sherlock, who was curled into a ball on the floor of the bathroom, face grey and hands trembling.

'What the hell have you taken?' he was furious as be bent down to check Sherlock over, tilting his face up so he could look at his pupils.

'Nothing,' Sherlock was sweating and on edge.

'Sherlock...' John warned, and then he smelled it. Faint, but unmistakable, and his heart landed somewhere in his stomach.

Omega in heat.

#

'You're not due again for another eight weeks, Sherlock. How the hell can you be in heat again?' John strode after him as Sherlock navigated the inside of his brother's house. He'd been banking on that time to settle Sherlock back into a medication routine that would prevent said heat from coming on in the first place.

'I think it's some sort of emotional stress reaction,' Sherlock was moving at a frantic pace and John was struggling to keep up with him. He stopped at a door and opened it more slowly than John expected, and then John saw why. Curled up on the bed were Mycroft and Greg. Mycroft had his back to Greg, who was wrapped tightly around him.

John stopped in his tracks and just stared. Greg had mentioned some things to him in private, but this was the first time John had ever seen it, and here it was Mycroft Holmes, the most powerful man in the country, most dangerous man he was ever likely to meet, alpha supreme, and he had his back to Greg, exposing all of his vulnerabilities and trusting Greg to protect him, even in sleep. It was...surprisingly powerful to witness, and John apparently wasn't the only one who thought so.

'Look at them, John,' the expression on Sherlock's face turned wistful.

There was a mumbled swear word from the bed and a slightly shift of covers.

'Is there any particular reason you are in my bedroom?' Mycroft's voice was muffled and sleepy.

'Fuck off, Sherlock,' Greg added.

'We have a problem,' John folded his arms, 'Sherlock's going into heat.'

'And what, pray tell, do you want me to do about it?'

'I don't know,' John shouted and Greg looked up, startled, 'Maybe you could-'

'Could what?'

'...help?'

Sherlock looked at John, at mixture of shock and disgust on his face that would have been more impressive if he didn't look like he was about to maul John right there on the floor of Mycroft's bedroom.

'Not happening John,' Greg shook his head, 'My advice is to take him home and try to get some sleep, because you are going to need it.'

Sherlock was trembling and looked like he was about to burst into tears at any second. He turned and swept from the room, and Mycroft frowned at John.

'And Dr Watson?'

John looked down at him.

'If you raise a hand to my brother again, then I shall ensure that hand will be the only piece of you that anyone ever finds.'

#

As their unexpected guests pounded back down the stairs, Gregory pulled himself against Mycroft's back again.

'Would you defend _me_ like that?' he murrmmured in his ear.

'Would you like me to?'

He could feel Gregory's smile against the skin of his shoulder, 'Yeah. Would be sexy as hell.

'Ordinarily I would leave Sherlock to it, after all, we've all punched him in the face at some stage, although I believe Miss Hooper is leading the league table by miles on that one.

'Yeah,' Gregory pressed a kiss against Mycroft's shoulder, 'Although John got extra points when he nutted him in a chip shop.'

There was a silence and Gregory sighed.

'What aren't you telling me?'

'Dr Watson has left his wife.'

'You sure?'

'Gregory!' Mycroft chided softly.

'Sorry,' his husband responded, 'I'm just teasing. John already told me that he's moved back, as in, you know, _moved back in.'_

'Your command of the English language is second to none.'

'Thank you, your grace.'

Mycroft shifted his elbow back so it softly nudged Gregory's stomach.

'The problem is that I do not believe he has confirmed this fact with her though.'

'Ah.' This time Gregory's sigh was one of disaproval, 'So she still thinks there's a chance...oh shit. What are the chances of her going all rogue and killing all of us in revenge?'

'I wish I could say that it wasn't at all a possibility. However, Mrs Watson has in the past demonstrated skills and attitudes that-'

'Okay, that's not actually helping.'

'Sherlock is in a sensitive place right now, and requires careful handling lest he do anything...'

'Stupid?' Gregory suggested, 'Because this is your brother we are talking about, so you'll have to be a bit more specific than that.'

There was a thoughtful pause as each man thought back over the stupid things that Sherlock had done, usually 'in the name of science.'

Gregory cleared his throat, 'Did...um, did you ever work out how he managed to get his hands on uranium in the first place?'

'No.'

'...that's...really worrying.'

'Quite.'


	51. Chapter 51

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> to make up for my recent disappearance I'm gonna try and post as much as possible tonight.

Sherlock's heat kicked in early the next morning, and he was already clawing at John before the other man was fully awake, desperate whimpers the only sound in the dark room. After the first, frantic round, they collapsed back and John gave them both a quick clean with a damp towel before urging Sherlock back to sleep.

They had spent the previous night preparing for what was coming. John had alerted the surgery that he wouldn't be in and explained why - one of the admitted benefits of an omega mate is that there are some things it's just criminal to leave unattended. Then he set about preparing the flat as much as possible, with everything they would need within reach and a quiet word with Mrs Hudson, who nodded sympathetically and then went to stay next door.

Sherlock was agitated, although not so much as a few weeks previous. But he seemed more worried this time, as though knowing what was coming was something he hadn't been able to fully process as he detoxed, but now that his mind was clearer...he kept shooting worried looks at John, who eventually cornered him by the window.

'Look,' John said, holding up his hands to keep some distance between them, 'I don't have to...I know we haven't really talked about things since we came back here, and I know we're...I don't know what we are, Sherlock. But if you don't want me here then, it's okay. If you want someone else-'

'No.' Sherlock turned away from him slightly, but kept his gaze fixed on him and realisation hit John like a physical blow.

'That's what kicked this off, isn't it? That argument about...him? And what happened afterwards.'

Sherlock didn't say anything, but he didn't have to. John rubbed his face, 'I'm so sorry. I didn't mean -'

The scent in the air changed slightly and Sherlock reached automatically for John, who just nodded.

'Come on then,' he said, pulling Sherlock back towards the bedroom.

#

Heat was hell.

In Sherlock's teen years he floated through them in a euphoric sea of drugs and fucking on a wonderful high.

'I didn't even know who I was with half the time,' his whisphered confession to John in the darkness of their bedroom was as painful to say as it was to hear, 'Anyone. I didn't care.'

John thought back to Sherlock telling him about random people he would pick up to deal with his heats, and he sighed against Sherlock's shoulder.

'Why did you stop?'

'Mycroft intervened. I was sent to a clinic. The first heat I had after I got clean was the single worst...I went on suppressants as soon as it finsihed. Eventually I went back on the drugs too, but I stayed on the suppressants until...well.'

'You could have told me.'

'It's not a lifestyle I'm proud of John, but it is what it is and I can't do anything to change it now.'

#

'Some of the places I had to fetch him from...' Mycroft shook his head at the memories as he accepted a cup of tea from Gregory. 'Orgies in drug dens...thankfully he only seems to remember some of it.'

'I remember some of the places I used to find him, some of the states he was in too,' Gregory said as he sat down on the sofa and thought, 'You could see this brilliant little mind in there crackling away, but it was just lost or something. Some of the people he used to hang about with too. It scares me to think what could have happened to him.'

#

'Mycroft thinks I don't remember too much from that time, but-'

'But you always remember everything.'

'Hmm.'

'If you-?'

'There are things about that time I do not wish to talk about. Things that happened...I don't want you to have them in _your_ mind too.'

'Sherlock.'

#

In her office Anthea double checked to make sure that the security detail outside 221B was still in place, casting her eye over the rota for the coming days. Then she pulled up her list of marks and checked to see where Mary Watson was.

'I want updates every fifteen minutes,' she told the secuirty team, 'And if you lose sight of her at all you let me know straight away and then you take all necessary steps.'

The two men in front of her nodded and left, leaving Anthea staring down at the camera feed on her laptop, watching as Mycroft and Greg had tea in his office. She very rarely ever activated the camera in there, preferring to give Mycroft his privacy. But with Magnussen and the Tehran tape and everything else that was going on, she liked to check in occassionally. This was going to be a very trying few days.

#

Molly looked up at the knock at the door and smiled to see Anthea standing there, completely unpreturbed by the body on the table with it's chest pinned open.

'Can I ask a favour?' Anthea said, even though Molly was fairly sure that in some strange way Anthea could order her, and pretty much everyone else employed in England and they would have to conform, but she shook off that feeling and nodded.

'Sure.'

Anthea held up a vial of blood, 'Dr Watson asked me to bring this over, specifically asked if you could test it.'

Molly nodded understanding, 'One of _those_ tests is it?' she held out her hand, 'Sherlock's I presume? What am I testing for?'

'Sherlock went into heat-'

'Already?' Molly frowned. It wasn't unheard of, but it wasn't common either.

'Dr Watson said he thinks it might be stress related or emotional, but...'

'But this is still _Sherlock_ we're talking about,' Molly nodded sadly, 'How soon does he need it?'

'Just when you get a chance. We can't do anything about it for the next few days anyway.' Anthea leaned over the body on the table and raised one perfect eyebrow, 'Is that a hand in his stomach?'

Molly nodded enthusiastically, 'Someone replaced all of his internal organs with hands and feet. And just wait until you see what happened to Mr Pearce over here...'

#

By the middle of the third day of Sherlock's heat, John's body could take no more. He ached with a pain that made his whole body burn and tense. His knees were bleeding, his cock ached and the skin around his whole groin burned from the constant friction. His body was going to give out any second.

#

Greg Lestrade was leaning over John when he opened his eyes, and it took a long moment before he thought to question why the man was kneeling on the bed beside him, until he tried to move and realised he wasn't in bed, but on the floor.

'You passed out,' Greg said, helping him to slowly sit up. A blanket had been pulled over John, for which he was thankful. He didn't need Greg seeing him naked on the living room floor, 'You alright?'

John nodded very slowly and waited for his vision to clear, 'Why are you here?'

'Sherlock called me,' Greg's dark eyes were full of concern, 'You're in a bad way, mate.'

'No other option.'

A look of guilt flashed across Greg's face, 'I know you already asked and everything, but I still feel...Mycroft said it was okay, so I had a bit of...a sniff.'

Thank Christ. A mix of anger and relief flared in John's chest, but both were quickly tamped down by the look on Greg's face as he shook his head.

'I'm sorry,' he waved a hand vaguely downwards, 'But absolutely nothing. Made me feel a bit sick to be honest.'

'Thanks for trying.'

'I wasn't going to, but when I got here and saw the state of you two-'

'Where is he?'

'Having a smoke on the fire escape.'

John closed his eyes and Greg gave him a slight squeeze.

'Just this once. We'll not tell Myc,' there was an awkward pause, 'Look, I hope you don't mind but I brought him over some...toys to try and take the edge off while we work out what to do.'

'They won't work, it's a scent thing-'

'Yeah, I know that John, but when I got here he was panicked, tense and dripping on your carpet.

There was the sound of footsteps and Sherlock came into view, clad only in his robe. His face was flushed and his hair dishevelled.

'John!'

'He's okay,' Lestrade reassured, 'Just exhausted, Sherlock. He can't do anymore.'

'But I _need_ him!'

'I know that. Look, just go and sniff your lemon until we work something out!'

Sherlock scuttled off with one last glance down at John, who immediately looked at Greg, 'Lemon?'

Greg coloured slightly, 'It used to work with my ex wife if she came on suddenly and it took me a while to get home. The smell helps cover some of the pheremones - it's till shit, but it helps a bit.'

'Thanks.'

'You're swaying. And you're grey.'

'You would be too if you'd been shagging non-stop for three days.'

'You get any sleep?'

'An hour here and there.'

Greg took a deep breath, looking awkward, 'Listen, I know a few blokes who might be able to...' he trailed off as Sherlock came back into the room, half a lemon in his hand. He was worried, but he was scowling, having obviously heard what Lestrade had just said.

'No,' John didn't take his eyes off his flatmate as he spoke, 'No strangers, Greg.'

Sherlock's face changed to something unreadable, and he shook his head at John as Greg spoke.

'John, he knows three alphas. One of them is exhausted, one of them can't get it up in his presence and the other one is his brother. So we're sort of down to limited options right now. John? Are you even listening to me?'

But John was still looking at Sherlock.

'Call him.'

#

Whatever conversation Sherlock and John were having, they were doing it silently. Greg had spent enough time around both the Holmes brothers to pick up a few things, but aside from Sherlock's distress and the flashes of anger and pain that passed across John's face, he had no idea what was going on.

Until John spoke.

'Call him.'


	52. Chapter 52

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minor Victor Trevor action in this chapter - but don't worry. He's not staying - I just needed someone from the past canon to play this role and other characters I wanted to use for other things in future.

'John, are you sure this is a good idea?'

'No, Greg, it's a bloody terrible idea,' John snapped and then paused when he heard the door downstairs opening and strange footsteps coming up the stairs. Sherlock appeared in the door way of his bedroom and looked at John with wide eyes as the door opened and John got a proper look at the strange man that Sherlock had called.

He was as striking as John remembered, as tall as Sherlock, but broader. It was with a pang that John noted how well matched he and Sherlock looked standing together, and for a second John was flooded with doubt. What would Sherlock want with John when there was someone like this man? He smiled at John and Greg, a warm, open smile that displayed perfect white teeth and John was slightly taken aback when he extended his hand.

'Victor,' he said, 'Which one of you is John?'

'I am,' John felt odd as he reached out and shook the man's hand, trying to ignore the frown on Greg's face as he did so, 'And this is our friend, Greg.'

Victor ran his eyes over Greg thoughtfully, clearly wondering why Greg was unable to help out, but keeping his questions to himself. It was only then that he glanced towards Sherlock, who was hovering on the other side of the room, gaze flickering between John and Victor.

'You alright?' he asked in a quiet voice that took John by surprise.

Sherlock nodded, his eyes locked on John's.

'It's okay,' John said. But it wasn't. It wasn't okay at all.

#

An hour later Greg physically dragged John out of the flat when it became clear that John couldn't cope with the sounds coming from upstairs. There had been a forceful discussion before Victor and Sherlock were allowed to leave the room, one which Greg had taken over when it became too much for John to speak.

'Only in the room upstairs,' Greg pointed at Victor, 'There are condoms up there and you _will_ use them. Understand?'

'Yes, sir,' Victor's voice held no trace of mockery, which only seemed to annoy Greg more.

'And under no circumstances will you bite him.'

John's head snapped up at that comment, it was something he hadn't even considered.

'Don't worry,' Victor assured, still in that calm voice, 'I know the situation.'

But it wasn't until Victor and Sherlock left the room that the reality of the situation hit John and he had to dive to the bathroom where he retched until there was nothing but bile, Greg hovering sympathetically behind him.

'I'm useless,' John said, 'He goes into heat because of a fight I started and I can't even deal with it, I have to rely on some stranger to...to...' at that John broke down completely, mental and physical exhaustion causing the tears that flowed freely now. He was barely aware of Greg's hand under his elbow as he pulled him to his feet and steered him out of the flat.

#

John stayed with Mycroft and Greg that night, although he got no sleep at all. In the morning they found him in the kitchen, nursing a cold cup of tea. Greg was still in his pyjamas, but Mycroft was already showered and dressed for the day ahead.

'Gregory told me that Sherlock called someone?'

'A guy called Victor,' John shrugged, 'I really didn't want to know more than that. It's bad enough as it is.'

'Victor Trevor?'

There was a tone in Mycroft's voice that alerted Greg immediately. But Mycroft only had eyes for John.

'Maybe. Sherlock said they were old friends.'

'They were more than that,' Mycroft said quietly.

'They were together?' John suddenly felt even worse, if that were possible.

'At times. Victor is a large part of the reason Sherlock developed certain...habits so readily.'

'You mean he...?

'And you're telling me that you left my brother alone, fresh from rehab in his addled state, with a drug dealer?'

John froze, staring at Mycroft as if trying to find any trace of a joke in his expression.

'Oh shit.'

#

The flat was silent when John tore up the stairs, wrenching open the doors as he moved through it, not caring what he might see, just driven by a need to make sure Sherlock was alright. He found him sitting in a half filled bath of cooling water, his knees drawn up to his chest and his gaze focused on his legs. He didn't look up as John dropped down on the floor beside him.

It was only when John was close that he saw the damage that had been done to Sherlock's skin. Bruises and scratches littered it, clear and distinct bites along the back of his neck and shoulders stood out red against the pale skin there.

Already Sherlock's scent was returning to normal, but John had to ask to be sure.

'Is it over?'

The tiniest nod, barely a movement at all.

'Did you take anything?'

A head moving just a fraction to the side and then back again and John let out his breath. He could insist on a urine sample, but Sherlock was too exhausted to do anything other than tell the truth at that moment. Still, there were some questions he _had_ to ask.

'Were you careful?'

Nod.

'Everytime?'

Nod.

John bit his lip, wanting to press that particular issue further, but knowing it wasn't the time.

'Okay, we'll let you have some rest and then I'll get you tested again,' he tentatively reached out and pushed Sherlock's hair back from his face, but the other man didn't respond, didn't even seem to notice he was still there. John took a second to take a longer look at the marks on Sherlock's skin. There was nothing that would leave a permenant mark, but he would be sore for a few days. None of the bites had broken the skin, although it was a close call with some of them, and John felt anger and shame that he had left Sherlock alone with that other man, let this happen. It didn't matter that at the time Sherlock wanted it, was begging for it. Somehow that just made it seem a little worse.

'Are you hurt?'

Another shake of the head.

John felt the water and found it to be cold, so he reached out for the hot tap and ran it to warm the bath enough to wash Sherlock off, the stink of the other alpha making him feel sick. He carefully washed as much of Sherlock's body as he could reach, rinsing his hair with a jusg of clean water, before slowly helping him, practically lifting him, out of the bath again and capturing him in a large towel, before pulling him close and holding him as tightly as he dared.

Sherlock leaned in towards him and pressed his forehead against the exposed skin on John's neck, breathing deeply. The longer he stood there, the slower his heart rate and the calmer he seemed, and John waited as long as he dared before steering Sherlock out of the bathroom and into their room, where he quickly dried him and simply wrapped him in a blanket for warmth, deciding that clothes could wait until Sherlock had warmed up again. Then he steered him out onto the sofa and guided him to sit, pulling him close and letting Sherlock's still damp head fall against his chest as he pulled him closer and stroked his face as Sherlock fell into a deep sleep that John knew would last for some time.


	53. Chapter 53

Neither Greg nor Mycroft were particularly hungry that evening, but Greg at least made and attempt to eat, while Mycroft just pushed salad around his plate. It hadn't escaped Greg's notice that Mycroft had lost weight recently as he tended to do when stressed, and while he was concerned, he also knew how Mycroft felt about his body and so he was reluctant to bring it up.

'What are you thinking about?' Greg asked, unprepared for the response he got.

'I wondered if you'd still be with me if it weren't for the bond.'

Mycroft said it as if it were the most obvious question in the world, his meeting Greg's across the table. Slowly, Greg set down his fork and looked at his husband for a long moment.

'What's brought this on?'

Mycroft shrugged, but Greg knew him better than that.

'This is about John and Sherlock, isn't it?'

Mycroft didn't speak and Greg sighed.

'We aren't John and Sherlock.'

There was silence in the kitchen for a long time before Greg spoke again.

'I know we didn't plan it, but I was already in love with you long before we bonded,' there was a long pause and neither of them mentioned the long two years that they were apart, 'I'd been gearing up to tell you, but...you were going to break up with me anyway, weren't you?'

To his credit Mycroft just nodded, eyes still focused on his plate.

Greg swallowed, 'Why?'

'Because I was already in love with you too.'

'That's not what usually drives people to break up, Myc.'

Finally Mycroft lifted his head and looked him squarely for the first time all night.

'No, but eventually I was going to let you down and then you wouldn't want me any more. So when I bit you, when I lost control like that, I realised that I could really hurt you and I panicked and got out before you could.'

The silence stretched on between them for a long time, until there was the soft sound of Greg shifting in his chair.

'You think I don't want you?' Greg had to fight to get the words out.

'Do you?'

There were moments when Greg really wanted nothing more than to shake some sense into Mycroft, and this was one of them. How could he even start to explain to the man across the table that he had spent so long wanting him, and wanting him so much that he couldn't even remember when that wasn't part of his life. So he didn't try, he just nodded, knowing, hoping that would be enough for Mycroft.

'Yes.'

'We haven't had sex in five weeks,' Mycroft was clearly trying to make it sound casual, but Greg was hit with the sheer force of realisation and he shook his head as the niggling issues of the last few weeks finally started to make real sense, 'You...flirt with Anthea.'

'Do you see me walking around with a black eye? No? Good, because that's what Anthea would do to me if I tried...That's why you've been back on your diet,' he said slowly, and Mycroft looked back down at his plate, cheeks red, and Greg wanted to kick himself for not noticing sooner, 'You're an idiot. Fuck, _I'm_ an idiot. But you're a blind idiot, and that makes you worse.'

'Excuse me?'

'How have you managed to miss the fact that I get hard just from being in the same room as you? Aren't you supposed to be the smart one?'

'I am the-'

'And yet you've also missed the fact that between baby sitting your brother in rehab and getting a face full of John's cum, it's been a bit difficult to find time lately, and it took you so bloody long to trust me enough to turn your back to me in bed, and don't think I'm the only one who noticed, I heard what Sherlock said the other night. So yeah, when I've finally managed to find a moment when both of us are in bed at the same time, I've been taking every opportunity to cuddle my very sexy husband. And yeah, I know neither of us are as young as we'd like to think, but surely even you can remember I didn't so much ask you out as drag out of your office demanding sex, and said it in front of Anthea, who, by the way was quite pointed about that later on,' as he was speaking, Greg had absently picked up his fork again and pointed it towards Mycroft before spearing another piece of fish, 'And, she knows we had sex on your desk again a couple of weeks ago because she sent me a DVD of it.'

'She-?'

'I'm building up quite the home movie collection - you know, sex in your office, in the hall on our wedding night, me singing bad karaoke at the Met Christmad party, you getting tortured, that time we had all that champagne at dinner and got carried away-'

'Gregory!' Mycroft raised his voice, and Greg just shrugged and prodded at his dinner again.

'Sorry, I don't even know why I'm shouting. No, actually I do. It's because you _refuse_ to see what I see. You refuse to see just how insane you make me and how much I want you, or how much I want to do filthy, dirty things with you.'

'So why don't you?' from the shocked look on Mycroft's face it was clear that he hadn't expected the words that came out of his mouth, and certainly not in the angry shout that they did. Greg felt his face crease into a genuine smile for the first time that evening, and he was on his feet a second later, wine glass in one hand, the other one reaching out for Mycroft.

'Challenge accepted, husband.'

#

As John nodded to Sarah and walked towards his office, he was surprised to feel a hand on his arm, and even more surprised when he looked up to see Mary's concerned face.

'i heard about Sherlock...' she let it trail off, clearly noy liking the thought that John, in whatever capacity, had been the subject of staff room gossip, 'Two in a month, that's...is he okay?'

There was nothing but honest concern in her face, and John knew that, as a nurse and as a decent human being, Mary wouldn't wish ill on Sherlock. Through work she would be all too aware of what two heats in a short space of time would do to a body. John owed it to her to be honest with her.

'Not really.'

She looked uncertain for a second.

'And you?'

'What do you think?'

She squeezed his arm again, and then, unable to say anything else, she carried on the way she had been walking, leaving John alone as he walked towards his office.

#

Life with Sherlock was...challenging.

That was how John tended to describe it, unless Sherlock had left something unsavoury in the fridge, or been a particularly difficult idiot to deal with, in which case,. John had a rather impressive collections of terms to decribe living with his flatmate.

He'd been warned though, that was something he could never deny. Even before he knew the man's name, he'd been warned, from his own mouth too. He'd gone in, reeled in by this amazing man and everything about him. Of course, over the time they had been living there, he had moved from his own room upstairs, gradually spending more and more nights in Sherlock's, whether Sherlock was there or not, until eventually it was obvious to both of them that John wasn't planning on sleeping upstairs again.

And it had been...challenging.

There had been times he'd wanted to scream and shout and throw things, and instead had tersely gone 'for some air' - tramping angrily through the streets of London until he had lost the urge to punch Sherlock in the face, or until the smell of whatever Sherlock had caused to excplode was dissipating, when he would walk back, trying not to glance up at the widow where he knew Sherlock was hovering, just out of sight, awaiting his return. Sherlock would, always, be opccupied before John made it to the top of the stairs, and would barely look at his flatmate-turned-partner, but something about the feel of the air in the room would change, the tall man practically palpitating relief until John had stripped off his coat and would sigh.

'Tea?'

#

When Mycroft's phone rang in the middle of the night, it was always answered. This time it was Greg who picked up when Anthea called.

'This better be important,' Greg warned her before she got a chance to speak, 'I'm licking chocolate sauce of Mycroft's bum.'

There was an annoyed 'Gregory!', slightly muffled by whatever was happening to Mycroft in the background.

'I know,' Anthea said, 'I've just been sent a video of it.'

#

Greg had expected Anthea, but he hadn't expected to also be greeted by Sally Donovan, the chief super intendant and a very pale Dimmock. Mycroft didn't look suprised, but then Mycroft rarely did.

'I take it Anthea was not the only one to recieve a recording?'

Sally nodded towards her laptop.

'We all recieved a different one,' she said, not meeting his eye.

Greg felt sick as he glanced down at the screen and realised he knew exactly when the recording had been made. And where.

'That's not one of our cameras,' he said, which startled the other police officers in the room.

'You have cameras?'

'Mr Holmes recieves daily threats on his life, of course there are cameras.'

'And who...um,' Dimmock swallowed, trying to be professional, but clearly struggling, 'Who..?'

'Monitors them?' Anthea asked calmly, 'A small, select team.'

'And you're sure this isn't one of them, Lestrade?'

Greg nodded.

'Please play them,' Mycroft said, managing to make it seem perfectly normal to be watching sex tapes in a police station.

There was silence as videos were played showing Mycroft and Greg in their home and Mycroft's office, private moments never meant for anyone else - including the shockingly intimate scenting incident.

'There was another one,' Sally said eventually, 'But I didn't think you'd want-'

'Thank you, Sergent Donovan, but I believe I can guess what it may be off.'

And with utter certainty Greg knew that everyone in the room had seen the footage of Mycroft taking Greg in the hallway of their home.

#

There was silence in the car on the way home, and Mycroft watched his mate with worry. Anthea kept her head down and focused on her blackberry, already actioning what damage control she could.

The super had been quite clear. Neither Scotland Yard nor Lestrade himself needed the attention or publicity that something like this being leaked would cause. The press attention alone would be humiliating. It wasn't a job loss, it was just a leave of absence. Words had floated around the room. Sexual deviance.Submission. Abnormal.

It was nothing Greg hadn't heard whispered in the changing rooms, and a small part of him knew it was true. Two alphas weren't normal. Hell, it hadn't even been legal when he was growing up. The chemistry was all wrong, and aside from anything else, it was just plain bloody dangerous. And Greg and Mycroft had already proven that with one single bite.

But until that point Greg hadn't cared, not really. His team knew him and the talk died down after a while. It made him feel sick to think of his personal life laid bare like that. It was one thing to confide in John, but it was something else to know that other people, strangers, had seen the things he had done with Mycroft. The intimate, submissive, _deviant_ things he had done.

Greg bit his lip as he thought of the look on Sally's face as the videos were being played. His own mind was filled with the images of himself pressed against the wall, or sitting in the chair watching Mycroft stroke himself until he came over Greg. Those were private things. _Omega_ things. Things alphas didn't do. And he'd seen it in their faces, all the pity, the questions, and he knew they were questioning him, if he was able to give in like that, let himself be dominated, then what use was he as an alpha.

But...

It didn't _feel_ wrong. Not with Mycroft. He reached out and squuzed Mycroft's hand for a second, and without taking his gaze off the window, he simply said, 'Love you, Myc.'

#

Mycroft could feel all the hurt coursing through Gregory, all the doubt, and as the other man sat silent, Mycroft started to worry how this would impact Gregory. Would he start to doubt them? Would he leave? Would he decide that his job and the respect of his collegues meant more to him?

And then he felt the warmth of Gregory's hand over his.

'Love you, Myc.'

It was soft and gentle, and Mycroft wondered if it was possible to love Gregory any more than he did.

#

Anthea gave a small start when Greg spoke so freely, as if she wasn't even in the car, and her chest constricted at the loving smile that briefly flashed across Mycroft's face, the relief there heartbreaking to see.

'Love you, Myc.'

They were going to be fine.


	54. Chapter 54

Greg had once accompanied Mycroft to a function at some private club which had been filled with many of Mycroft's old classmates, most of which had massive trust funds and political jobs. Mycroft was not particulalrly sentimental about his university days, so Greg had been surprised when Mycroft had asked if he would like to go. Greg hadn't thought much more about it until they arrived and the pair drew inquisitive looks as they entered the room. Mycroft was approched quickly by people he knew, and who all took the opportunity to get a better look at Greg.

The conversation was mostly about who was doing what and where and some general inquires after mutual aquantances and then always the next question would be, 'So, Gregory, what do you do?' followed by raised eyebrows when the response was 'I'm a detective in the Met.'

'The Met?' one man had frowned as if he didn't understand, and judging by the look of confusion and the stink of brandy, he probably didn't.

'The Metrolpolitian Police.'

There was a laugh, 'You're a _policeman?_ Are you going to arrest me then?'

Yeah. Height of humour that bunch. Greg found himself glancing at Mycroft out of the corner of his eye and wondering how someone so smart and amazing could have been in the same class as the idiots they were surrounded by.

He got his answer when he was making his way to the bar and heard something that made him want to be anywhere else.

'...French apparently.'

'Doesn't sound French,' came a second voice, 'Sounds rather like our gardener.'

'Where do you think Holmes found him?'

Greg gritted his teeth and kept moving. It wasn't the first time he'd overheard comments about his accent, or why Mycroft was with him. When he reached Mycroft it was clear that the other man could see that something was wrong with Greg, but he wisely didn't say, instead flashing him a comforting smile as he pretended to listen to what the awful braying woman he was talking to was prattling on about. She paused as Greg approached though, apparently not sure if he was a guest of if he worked there.

They had a fight about it in the car on the way back to Mycroft's.

'It's every time we meet one of those dicks. They either think I work for you or that you're shopping around for a bit of rough. And you don't correct any of them!'

It lasted until they got through the door, and through two bottles of wine as Greg pulled off his tie and stormed about the kitchen ranting.

'You let me stand there like some idiot. I'm not expecting you to say...fuck I don't know. I don't know what this is.' he glared at Mycroft and then ran his hands through his short, grey hair, 'Is that what you want, Mycroft? For people to assume I'm a prostitute, or that you're just amusing yourself with the commoner? Because what is this?'

#

Mycroft stared at Gregory as the man's voice softened, full of pain. He wanted to tell him that it was everything, that he'd been falling in love with the man. But he didn't want the first time he said those words to be after an argument, so instead he just kissed him and led him to the bedroom filled with sudden, urgent want for him and the desperate need to show Gregory how he felt with his actions, even if he couldn't say the words yet.

An hour later he was calling for an ambulance as Gregory was bleeding out on the bed.

Now Gregory's insecurities were being exploited again, this time someone was trying to sexually demean him, to strip away another layer of his self worth and make him question his relationship.

And with that realisation Mycroft knew that the target wasn't really Gregory. It was him.


	55. Chapter 55

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And another tiny short one - sorry, but for some reason this seemed to be all this chapter needed. Hopefully I'll be able to update again during the week.

When Gregory arrived to meet Mycroft for lunch, Mycroft summoned Anthea into the room too, earning a slight frown from both of the others that only deepened when Mycroft spoke.

'It's me. The recordings last night.'

'Are you sure?'

'The...occassions portrayed have all been since the Tehran recording was sent. And it's too much of a coincidence that they have all been deeply personal recordings that only someone who knows certain things would be able to have orchestrated.'

There was a pause and then Anthea nodded.

'Understood, sir.'

Gregory raised his hands, 'Hang on. What's understood? We already know we're looking for...oh. You know who it is. It's him, isn't it? Magnussen?'

Mycroft made no response, not even the flicker.

'We already know that someone on the inside, someone from our team or a previous agency supplied the Tehran footage to him. So we can assume that the footage last night was supplied by the same person.' Anthea explained, 'Someone with access, knowledge and the skill set to acquire such things.'

This time the silence stretched for far too long, during which Gregory just looked at Mycroft, and Anthea looked at her lap.

'If that's the case it could be someone like me,' Gregory said eventually.

'Or me,' Mycroft's said.

Anthea took a deep breath, but when she spoke her voice was unusually quiet, 'Or me.'

'There's a link between the two. Both contain footage of things that are dear to me. Things and people that would be hurt because of me. I fully expect that footage of my brother will appear somewhere soon.'

'Why?'

'Because...work, that mission, the country, you and Anthea...the only other thing I care about protecting is Sherlock. I'm the link. All the things I care about under threat of punishment, discreditment, humiliation.'

Gregory looked again from Mycroft to Anthea, and once more got the feeling that there was something very wrong going on that he'd never seen between them before. Then it hit him.

'You really do suspect that it could be one of us, don't you?'

'Of course.'

'But-?'

'We have to,' Anthea said softly, her tone resolute and her expression understanding, but firm.

Mycroft watched Gregory process that information and wished he could explain better how their world worked, but he could only trust that Gregory had seen and knew enough to understand why it had to be that way.

Anthea took that as her cue to leave, and nodded curtly at both Mycroft and Gregory. She was halfway to the door before Mycroft called for her again.

'Oh, and Anthea dear, it seems that Sherlock has been associating with Mr Trevor again.'

Anthea's tut wasn't enough to cover the annoyed 'fuck' that escaped her mouth first, 'Would you like me to deal with it, sir?'

'Just put him under survelliance for now,' Mycroft said.

Anthea nodded again and headed for her desk leaving a slightly stunned Gregory still sitting there just staring at his husband.

'Well,' Mycroft said eventually, 'Are you ready for lunch?'

Gregory blinked several times, still dazed. Then he stood, shaking his head slightly, 'Yeah.'

#

John is mad at me. What should I do? SH.

Why is he mad? - G

I may have accidently knocked the fridge off before I went out. SH

It was quite pungent by the time we got home. SH

What was in there? - g

Sherlock? - g

Just some pig. SH

You mean pork? - G

No. SH

#

John was apparently still in his furious mood when he turned up to collect Sherlock from a crime scene later that afternoon, which wasn't improved by either the laughter from Sally Donnovan or the suspicious looks he was getting from the staff of the aquarium. Lestrade handed him over with a frown.

'Explain to him what 'banned' means, yeah?' Lestrade sighed, 'And check his pockets.'

#

Mycroft and Greg had taken down the cameras they knew about while Anthea tried to trace who sent the emails. Sherlock, laughing cruelly, had eventually arrived at Greg's request, still pouting about the incident at the aquarium and muttering about John being unreasonable.

'And why should I help?' he demanded of them when the situation had been fully explained.

'Because you're good at finding all the survellience at your place, so put that devious little mind to work here.'

'And if I don't?'

'I'll tell John what was really in that milk he thought tasted a bit funny.'

Sherlock narrowed his pale eyes and gave a snort before striding through into Mycroft's study


	56. Chapter 56

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, this story is more complicated and I just want to make sure I get it right so I don't get lynched by you lot. :)

Greg was only half listening to Mycroft and Sherlock bickering when his mobile rang.

'Sir, it's me,' Sally Donovan's voice was low and urgent, 'Is the Fre- Holmes with you?'

Greg frowned at the name, but decided from the urgent tone of her voice that it wasn't the time to start a fight over it.

'Yeah, he's here.'

'Keep him there, don't let him go home.'

'Why?'

There was no answer.

'Sal?'

'Can we meet somewhere? Not here.'

There was a desperation in her voice that Greg had rarely heard before.

'Course, give me half an hour and I'll meet you at the Windsor?'

There was a click as she put the phone down without responding.

#

The Windsor was full, but Sally has still managed to find a table at the back, where she was nursing a drink and scanning the crowd anxiously for Greg to arrive. Out of habit she ran her eyes over the other patrons, searching faces for anyone she knew. Just in case. Sally was well aware she was in over her head and the pool of people she could had shrunk considerably in recent weeks.

Greg Lestrade arrived eventually, and she pushed the pint she had already ordered for him across the table.

'Hey Sal,' he sat down opposite her.

'Sir,' her voice was low and had a slight tremor in it that she tried to control.

'What happened?'

'There's been another one. Body turned up in the back seat of a car that was parked in multistory. Found by a security guard. Shot in the head, execution style.'

'One of...of _that_ team?'

Sally nodded and took a sip of her drink, trying to appear nonchalent just in case anyone was watching her interaction. It had been hard to be sure at first, but she had studied that tape so often that every face and voice was etched into her mind. It was one of them.

'I've already spoken with MI....um, the relevant people, and they'll cover- deal with it same as before.'

Greg nodded, not liking seeing Sally so rattled.

'I thought you might want to tell....Mr Holmes yourself.'

'Thanks, Sal.' he appreciated the gesture. Since the Fall fiasco she had gone out of her way to be more considerate of other people, and Greg respected her a lot for it.

'There was something else,' she said, looking down at her glass, 'There was another recording. It was on a disk...on the body,' she paused again, 'Look, I'm not supposed to be telling you any of this. I could get into serious trouble,' she looked him right in the eye, 'I could get killed if anyone found out I knew what was really going on.'

'I know,' Greg said, wishing he could say something else that would comfort her, but the words just wouldn't come.

So the recordings and the killings were definitely connected. Greg didn't know whether that made things better or worse.

'I think it's probably best we keep as much of this between ourselves as possible,' he said slowly. Sally nodded, not needing to be told, 'Is there any way you can get me a copy of that recording?'

She nodded, 'Course.'

Greg smiled at her and stood to go, 'Thanks again,' he said, and then paused, 'What did you want me to keep Sherlock for?'

'I...look, it's best you wait and see when you watch it. But some of the lads....well, they've just been looking for an excuse, and with his record...'

Greg groaned, his mind already putting the pieces together. He nodded once more and left Sally to finish her drink.

#

The video arrived in his inbox as Greg was on his way home. Turning the volume off just in case, he opened it and watched time stamped footage of Sherlock paying visits to not just one, but three different drug dealers, followed by a montage of Sherlock indulging in some of his favourite habits. Greg stopped the video at the footage of Sherlock snorting his third line of coke.

He tipped his head back against the seat and closed his eyes to stop the angry tears there, trying to work out what he was going to tell Mycroft when he got back. Then, with shaking hands, he dialed the number of John's clinic.

#

Sherlock was pulling on his gloves and scarf, about to leave when Greg arrived home.

'No!' he pressed his finger into Sherlock's chest and drove him backwards into the hall again, 'You and me are going to have a little chat.'

Mycroft looked up at the snarl in Greg's voice, and then looked at Sherlock and sighed.

'What's he done this time?'

Greg just tossed his phone at Mycroft, still open on the video, but his focus was entirely on Sherlock.

'Arms, now.'

Sherlock blinked in surprise didn't move, but Greg wasn't backing down.

'John is on his way over here, and I'd rather he didn't have to see this bit. So. Show. Me. Your. Arms.'

For the longest time Sherlock didn't move, just kept staring at Greg. Eventually he shrugged off his coat and jacket and slowly rolled up the sleeve of his shirt. Greg took hold of his wrist and pulled it forward, looking down at the faded marks on the inside of his arm.

'And the other.'

Sherlock wordlessly repeated the action with the other sleeve.

'And you're feet. You know the drill.'

Silently Sherlock removed his shoes and socks, extending one foot and then the other for inspection. Greg leaned back, satisfied with that at least.

'No new marks, Mycroft,' he said, but Mycroft was absorbed in the video he was watching, his face a mask of disapointment.

'You're only out of rehab,' he whispered,' Some of these are dated this week.'

'That means nothing,' Sherlock said, buttoning up his cuffs again, 'Things can be faked.'

'And you snorting all that cocaine was faked as well?' Greg shouted.

'Well...okay, no. But I haven't had cocaine since-'

'Thursday, apparently,' Mycroft said, frowning at the video.

Sherlock glared up at him, 'If you are trying to be amusing, Mycroft-'

'I can assure you I am not,' Mycroft turned the phone around to show them the camera feed, clearly timestamped with the previous thursday's date.

'Myc,' Greg said softly, and then, when Mycroft didn't respond, 'Myc, he was in heat on Thursday.'

Sherlock glared up at his brother as Greg went on.

'He was stuck in the flat for most of the week, and Anthea had your people watching the door. Besides, he was in no fit state to be going anywhere, and I don't know where that place is, but it's not Baker Street.'

'He was left on his own with Victor.'

'As soon as John gets here we'll get some samples, but God help you Sherlock if you have taken anything. I assure you that you will not see the outside of a rehab clinic until you're fifty.'

Mycroft took out his own phone and rang for Anthea.

'I have a rather delicate job for you,' he said, his voice fading as he walked back to his office to collect his coat, leaving Sherlock and Greg staring at each other until John arrived.

#

The great thing about Molly Hooper was that she didn't ask many questions, whether it was drugs tests on side or faking a death she could be relied on to help where she could. Greg was constantly being surprised by how flexible her morals actually were sometimes. She didn't bat an eye lid as Sherlock was led into the lab, John holding one elbow and Greg the other, instead she just looked disapointed.

She didn't speak as she handed John a plastic cup which he took wordlessly as he pulled Sherlock off to the bathroom.

'You're not actually going to watch me?' Sherlock complained.

'Fucking right I am.'

When the door closed behind them, Molly turned to Greg and Mycroft, who still scared her, 'Oh, um. I got the results back from Sherlock's heat.' she flushed a little as she said it.

'And?'

'Clean,' she said, 'There was nothing in his system that could have brought it on, and his hormone levels were normal for the start of a heat. I um...I did tests for all the usual things too, and he really was clean. No drugs at all. No other nasty surprises either.' she added with a nervous smile.

Greg felt awkward discussing Sherlock's sexual health, but Mycroft just nodded, 'Thank you Dr Hooper. You will, of course, treat this with the strictest of confidence.'

She nodded a little too quickly.

'If he's not clean today we'll let you take the first swing,' Greg offered.

#

Anthea tapped her fingers on her desk as she waited for the programme to finish running. It was undeniable now. The people behind the deaths of her former team were the same people who were behind the recordings. Someone was after Mycroft, and by proxy, everyone else in his life. The recording being left on the body was a warning.

Threaten. Humiliate. Destroy. Discredit. And if that didn't work...dispose of.

There was only one name that came to mind.

Magnussen.

But he clearly wasn't working alone. Someone close to them was feeding him information, doing his dirty work him. They had to have a reason. Was he offering amnesty, or reward, or were they just trying to cover a bigger secret of their own in return for working for Magnussen.

Anthea did what she always did when she was trying to work something out. She wrote a list. In fact, she wrote several lists. All the people involved in the Tehran mission that went wrong, with the already deceased scored out in red. Then she wrote a list of all the people in Mycroft's personal circle, which was very small. She extended it to included friends of friends, their family members and partners, but even at that, it was slightly depressing to look at. Then she wrote another, even smaller list, of people who knew about Tehran, and current and former agents and officials who knew more about what Mycroft did than they should.

She laid the three lists side by side and stared at them.

There was only one name that was on all three.

She'd been right.


	57. Chapter 57

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the length of time between updates - I've been at the mercy of my internet connection lately. Hopefully this makes up for it. And in other news - we are nearing the end of this story. I can't believe this all came about from what I thought was going to be a 1000 word one shot way back in December. Thanks for the ride folks, it's been awesome.

Sherlock was clean. Molly had tried to look only slightly disapointed that she wouldn't get to hit him. John had been creeping up on her in the tally and she wanted to keep her lead. Anthea had called to inform Mycroft that the footage had indeed been old footage, the most recent was from before Sherlock went into rehab.

After that Sherlock had given them all a smug look and strode out of the room, coat fanning out behind him and John sighing and following him.

'We have work to do,' he said.

'I was already at work,' John complained.

'But your work is boring,' Sherlock took the stairs two at a time.

'My work pays the bills,' and stops me killing you, John added under his breath.

'But we have lots of money.'

'No, _you_ have lots of money.'

'Oh John, not this again,' Sherlock pushed open the door to the street, threw up his arm and a cab immediately pulled up.

'How do you that?' John asked, and Sherlock just responded with a smirk.

#

The door to the morgue had just swung shut after Greg, leaving Molly alone again, when the phone rang.

'Barts,' she answered cheerfully, 'Morgue.'

'Molly,' Anthea's smooth voice came down the line, 'Are you free at lunch?'

#

　

　

Greg came down from the shower to find Anthea letting herself in through the front door, immaculate in her suit, hair and make up perfect. As usual, despite the late hour, she looked like she should be on the cover of a magazine, her naturally innocent face hiding a steel interior.

'You work too hard,' Greg reached the bottom of the stairs and kissed her cheek, relieving her of the armful of folders she was carrying.

Anthea rolled her eyes at him, but followed him through to the kitchen where Mycroft was dishing out dinner. On seeing Anthea he reached for a third plate and began to ladel lasagne out before she could protest.

At least, Greg thought it was lasagne. It was a bit hard to tell. He tried to keep his expression neutral as Mycroft smiled.

'I cooked,' he said.

Anthea nodded, eyes wide and clearly at loss for anything to say other than, 'Apparently.'

She took the plate that was offered and seated herself at the table while Greg poured them all a very large glass of wine. As Mycroft joined them, Greg tried not to notice how Mycroft's serving was much smaller than theirs. Anthea obviously noticed too, because her eyes narrowed for a second before flicking to Greg, and then the expression was gone completely from her face.

#

Mycroft did not see the look Gregory gave him because he was too busy looking at Anthea as she took a fork to the very badly made lasagne. It had been one of Gregory's rules when he moved in - they had to cook at least two nights a week, the rest of the week the housekeeper left a steady supply of delicious dinners in the fridge ready to be heated up when the two men finally got home. The contents of those dinners had also changed slightly over time, and Mycroft suspected that was for Gregory's benefit. There was certainly more red meat and carbohydrates being served than ever before. And bread had made a reappearance in the house for the first time in years. It had been with a mix of horror and jealousy that Mycroft had watched Gregory consume four slices of toast before rushing out of the house in the mornings.

In an effort to keep control of his own diet, especially following Gregory's fried steak and eggs the previous night (his arteries had narrowed in protest just at the sight of his plate) Mycroft had attempted a vegetarian lasagna which was light on the creamy sauce and cheese and heavy on the mushrooms and aubergine.

It looked disgusting and it didn't taste much better. Even still, the two other people at the table were eating without complaint, and Mycroft knew that Gregory would eat anything he made him, no matter how horrible it was. But he was still slightly surprised by Anthea. In all the years he had known her, Anthea had been very particular about her food and had most of it ordered in from one of those healthy meal companies, and the rest supplemented with deliveries from Fortnum and Mason. But in recent weeks she had been more experimental with her food and Mycroft had walked in on her heating her lunch in the microwave just that afternoon. The smell had been deliciously tomatoey and strangely foreign to Mycroft.

'What is that?' he asked as she took the bowl out of the microwave. It was, he could see, filled with small circular... _things_ floating in a thick orange sauce.

Anthea glanced up at him, fork in one hand and bowl in the other and given him a slightly confused smile.

'Spagetti hoops.'

When Mycroft returned to his desk he spent ten minutes looking up the strange food and was surprised to find that it was a cheap, mass produced and nutritionally lacking foodstuff sold in tins. However, knowing that did nothing to remove the lingering and very tempting smell that hung around the office for the rest of the afternoon.

#

As they ate, and really, it wasn't as bad as it had looked, although Greg was certain that the pasta shouldn't still be crunchy, Anthea told them about her lists of suspects.

'We know that someone is working with Magnussen, and they had to have access to personal and political information,' she indicated the sheets that Greg had pulled out of her folder, 'With agents from the Tehran mission being killed, it's got to be someone who was on that mission.'

'The killer obviously saw the footage though, so it could be anyone.'

Anthea shook her head, 'I thought that until I went through the footage again,' she paused and looked at Mycroft, 'Bill Patterson was found dead in his flat.'

Mycroft set his fork down, 'When?'

'This morning.'

'Who? I didn't have any-' Greg started, but Anthea cut him off.

'And you won't. Sergent Donovan doesn't know. It was set up as a suicide.'

'I thought Sally was getting all these cases?' Greg asked Mycroft. But again, it was Anthea who answered.

'Even if it crossed her desk, she wouldn't know he'd been one of ours,' Anthea said, 'Patterson wasn't on the footage. He wasn't even in the building.'

'I don't understand.'

Mycroft spoke then, his voice weighted with throughtful regret, 'Patterson was our communications expert, he wasn't front line.'

'He's set up base a couple of hundred yards away and was trying to get the helicpoter while we went in for Mycroft,' Anthea supplied.

'The only people who know he was on that mission were other members of the team.'

'It could just be a suicide,' Greg reasoned, even though he didn't really believe it himself.

Anthea shook her head again, 'Too much coincidence.'

Greg was studying the lists again, looking down the list of names. Anthea had been diligent and ruthless in her inclusions. Greg didn't know whether to be pleased or concerned that his own name hadn't been crossed out. But then, Anthea hadn't crossed out her name or Mycroft's either. There was one name he hadn't expected her to put a line through, and he frowned.

'You took Sherrinford Holmes off this list.'

Mycroft jerked slightly at the name, but Anthea just nodded.

'So you leave us on, but you take the fugitive off?'

Anthea glared at him, 'I admit he could still be a possibility, but it's unlikely. Holmes has more to lose than anyone if the fact he's still alive comes to light. He's impulsive, but he's not reckless. He wouldn't work with someone like Magnussen, after all, his life depends on keeping a low profile.'

It was only then that Greg noticed the way Mycroft was looking at Anthea, and how Anthea was avoiding meeting his eye.

'What aren't you telling us?' Mycroft said eventually.

'Anthea?'

Anthea licked her lips and then turned to look directly at Mycroft.

'It can't be Sherrinford because he's been in intensive care in a hospital in Argentina for the last three weeks.'

'Intensive care?' Greg asked at the same time as Mycroft demanded, 'How do you know?'

Taking a deep breath, Anthea said carefully, 'It's nothing sinister, he was in a car accident. He'll be fine long term.'

'What happened? And why didn't you tell me?' Mycroft's voice was low and dangerous.

'He swerved to avoid a dog and hit a telegraph pole. And I didn't tell you because I thought you had enough distractions to be getting on with right now. He's concious and the long term prognosis is good. Keeping him in ICU was really just a precaution our people insisted on,' she looked uncomfortable, 'I keep track of him. The information came through via the fake insurance company we set up, all of his medical bills come through to that.'

'I didn't sign off on those.'

Anthea shifted slightly and prodded her dinner with her fork, 'Yeah, you did.'

'And what persona is he using at the moment?' Mycroft asked tightly, leaving the matter of Anthea forging his signature again for another time.

'He's calling himself Claude Rains.'

A tiny flicker of a smile crossed Mycroft's face at that, and even Greg shook his head. Those bloody Holmes boys. The Invisible Man indeed. Subtlety was not their strong point.

Greg returned his attention to the lists, his policeman's brain running a cross comparrison as he read. He stopped suddenly and looked up at Anthea, only to find that she was staring at him with an intensity that was slightly off putting. Greg wanted to say something, seeing in her face that she had drawn the same conclusion that he had. And how he desperately wanted to be wrong. But there was only one answer, one suspect, and it chilled him to the bone to think about it.

He took a long, shuddering breath and set the pages down on the table, dinner forgotten.

'It's Mary Watson, isn't it?'


	58. Chapter 58

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I went a bit off canon at the end of this chapter, mostly because I didn't really want to have to be dealing with the whole Janine thing, so forgive me, but I didn't think my boys could stand much more angst right now.

Sherlock closed the door on his latest client and sat back with a pleased smile on his face as John cleared away the tea cups.

'John?' Sherlock snapped eventually.

Pausing, three cups balanced in his hands, John attempted to shrug, 'Nothing. Just...surprised. That's all.'

'Surprised? Hmm.'

'Well, recovering someone's old love letters? It's a bit...juvenille. I usually can't get you out of bed for less than a six, and you won't leave the flat for less than a seven. And this one seems, well, more of two.'

Sherlock turned his pale eyes towards his best friend and gave him that slow smile, 'No John. This one is a ten.'

#

Molly Hooper was just finishing work. She usually liked the late shift when the hospital was quiet. Molly liked her job. It had suprised her parents when she chose that field. Hell, it had surprised everyone. Sweet, sensitive Molly Hooper was always destined for a life of helping people. A primary school teacher, a nurse, care work. At sixteen school forced every pupil to take two weeks work experience. Molly had shadowed the nurses at St Barts. Well, for the first six hours anyway. As soon as she set eyes on her first corpse Molly was hooked. Far from being squeamish, she tackled the situation with her frank practicality and found she was actually rather good at it.

True, it turns out that the actual job can be a real deterrant when it came to anything resembling a love life, and there were nights when Molly left the morgue carrying with her some unpleasant smells. But she left every day feeling that she had done something useful, and that allowed her to smile and return again the next day.

She was just hanging up her coat when there was the click of heels coming down the corridor at a rapid pace. Molly glanced at the clock, it was gone eleven.

'Molly?' Anthea's voice rang out across the darkened lab.

'In here,' Molly shouted, smiling as she closed her locker and reached for her bag.

Anthea appeared in the doorway, a challenging smirk on her face.

'How would you like to do some crime?'

#

Gregory was quiet as he got ready for bed, curling onto his side away from Mycroft. They lay in silence for a long time until Gregory spoke, his voice soft.

'Are you going to leave me?'

Mycroft was immediately sitting up.

'Why would I leave you?'

Gregory didn't reply, and so Mycroft lay back down beside him, pulling him closer, wrapping his arms around him.

'Of course I'm not going to leave you. I'm never going to leave you again.' He pressed a kiss against Gregory's shoulder, breathing in the smell of him, warm and comforting.

'But if people know-'

'It doesn't matter.'

'Your career-'

'Gregory,' Mycroft's voice was stern, but his head was still rested against the back of Gregory's neck, 'What people think about what we do behind closed doors is of no consequence to my career. I can assure you that my superiors, such as they are, have been involved in far more interesting sexual exploits, and the public doesn't even know I exist, never mind care about me. No, I'm far more worried about how this will impact you.'

'Half my team were sent sex tapes apparently by my friend's sort of ex-wife, how do you think it's going to impact me?'

'I don't know,' Mycroft admitted, 'But one thing I do know is that I am not going anywhere.'

'Promise?' Gregory's voice was small and full of pain.

Mycroft pulled him even closer, kissing the skin across his shoulders.before resting his forehead there.

'Mycroft?'

'Hmm?'

'We need to talk about Mary.'

Mycroft let out a long breath, but didn't say anything, aware that Anthea was looking deeper into things before they took any action.

'Do you really think it's her? Myc?' Greg persisted.

'It's possible.'

'What do we do then?'

'I honestly don't know.'

#

Mary Watson was out with friends. Anthea knew because she had increased the survellience on Mary and her agents reported back regularly. The house she had shared with John was in darkness as Molly and Anthea slipped in through the back door.

The house was different from their previous visits. It didn't smell like John anymore, except for faint, lingering traces here and there - like the armchair he preferred and a coat that was hanging up by the door.

John clearly hadn't moved out though, the house was still littered with his belongings, his books, his shoes, and Anthea knew if she looked in the wardrobe upstairs that most of his clothes would still be hanging there. She pressed her lips together in a tight line. John needed to make a decision one way or the other and then follow it through. This was good for no one.

She had half a mind to send someone around to bag up his belongings and ship them to Baker Street for him. But she was slightly worried that Mary may shoot her if she did.

'Anthea?' Molly paused, fiddling with the strap of the bag she was holding, 'How come Mary can't smell you when you've been here? I mean, she knows both of us, and I just....'

'Fabreeze is a wonderful thing,' Anthea said with a smile, already opening Mary's laptop.

'Just lift it and we'll go.' Molly was getting anxious.

'She'll know we've been here,' Anthea didn't look up as she attached a small, silver harddrive the size of her mobile phone and started copying the contents of Mary's laptop. Molly looked over her shoulder, impressed.

'How did you guess the password?'

'I didn't,' Anthea didn't look up from what she was doing, 'There wasn't one. Individual files and programmes are protected though.'

'I suppose if you are trying to hide the fact that you are an international terrorist from your husband then leaving things unlocked will gain his trust and show that you have nothing to hide.'

There was silence in the room for a long moment, and when Anthea finally looked around it was to see Molly leaning over the coffee table, examining the magazines stacked there. She felt Anthea's shocked gaze on her and looked back.

'I spend a lot of time with Sherlock,' she said by way of explantion.

Anthea nodded, just once, then frowned as she returned to the laptop, 'Probably best we don't mention this to him. Or John.'

#

'I still don't understand why you're so keen to take this case, Sherlock?' John struggled to keep up with his best friend as he charged down the stairs.

'Isn't it obvious?'

John resisted the urge to punch Sherlock, but only just. Instead he followed the younger man out the front door and onto the street.

'Sherlock?'

'Don't you see, it's _Magnussen_!'

John gave him a blank look.

'Oh John, Charles Magnussen.'

'The newspaper bloke, so?'

Sherlock couldn't have looked more disgusted if he'd tried.

'I've been looking for a reason to go after Magnussen for a long time, but it hasn't been until recently that they managed to finally get a charge to stick long enough to make it to an inquiry. Corportate and political corruption, boring, but Mangussen's level of influence and control over this country is truly frightening. It's rotten to the core.'

'I thought Mycroft ran the country.'

Sherlock gave him a strange look, 'And what do you think will happen if Magnussen gets to Mycroft? Those recordings were a warning. He's telling Mycroft that he knows enough to sink him and discredit everyone he knows.'

'So, you're doing this to help Mycroft?'

'Don't be ridiculous,' Sherlock snapped, 'I'm doing this to help myself.'

John sighed and followed him to the kerb, 'Of course you are.'

'If I can get access to Magnsussen's vaults then I can see what other information he's storing there,' he pulled his gloves on as his eyes scanned the road, 'Don’t bring a gun.'

John blinked, 'Why would I bring a gun?'

'Or a knife, or a tyre lever. Probably best not to do any arm-spraining, but we’ll see how the night goes.'

He threw up his arm as a taxi approached and, naturally, slowed down for him. It was like a slightly crap, but useful superpower, Sherlock's ability to summon cabs out of thin air.

'You’re just assuming I’m coming along?' John didn't know he was bothering to ask. Of course Sherlock was assuming he was coming. Because he always did, didn't he. That's what John Watson had done since day one, he had followed Sherlock Holmes wherever the man led him, willingly, unwillingly, in worry and exasperation and always, always with the rush of excitement over the fact that they never really knew where they running to.

Sherlock ran his gaze over John's body as he reached for the door, 'Time you got out of the house, John. You’ve put on seven pounds since you got married, and the cycling isn’t doing it.'

The casual reference to his marriage made John start, and he floundered for something to say and eventually managed to blurt out, 'It’s actually four pounds.'

Sherlock looked at him out of the window and said something John wasn't expecting, 'Mary and I think seven. See you later.'

Before John could react, the cab was already pulling away, leaving John standing in the middle of Baker Street alone.

#

CAM Global News was, despite the late hour, very busy. News is a 24/7 business, and the building never really quietened down. John looked around as he walked across the foyer, slightly annoyed that he'd had to spend fifteen minutes trying to get his own cab. Bloody Sherlock and his dramatics. Still. He was here now, and the great git had to be somewhere close. He glanced at his watch again just as a voice broke spoke behind him.

'Magnussen’s office is on the top floor, just below his private flat... but there are fourteen levels of security between us and him ...' Sherlock's gaze was running quickly around the building. John had seen that look many times and it made him smile despite his annoyance, '...two of which aren’t even legal in this country. Want to know how we’re going to break in?'

'Is that what we’re doing?' John shouldn't have been surprised.

'Of course it’s what we’re doing.'

Sherlock turned and walked away across the foyer towards the ecalators that would take them to the concourse. Nope, John sighed, not surprised at all.

Indicating an elevator in front of them, Sherlock leaned in close, 'Magnussen’s private lift. It goes straight to his penthouse and office. Only he uses it ... and only his key card calls the lift. Anyone else even tries, security is automatically informed.'

They stepped off the escaltor and Sherlock held up a key card in front of John, who frowned, but knew better than to interrupt when Sherlock was on a roll.

'Standard key card for the building. Nicked it yesterday. Only gets us as far as the canteen.'

He shot John a sly look as if challenging him to say something about Sherlock's kleptomanic tendancies, but John just sighed again.

'If I was to use this card on that lift now,' Sherlock asked, 'What happens?

John was certain even he knew the answer to that one, 'Er, the alarms would go off and you’d be dragged away by security.'

'Exactly.' Sherlock sounded slightly too pleased about that idea, which is probably what prompted John to carry on.

'Get taken to a small room somewhere and your head kicked in.'

Sherlock frowned, 'Do we really need so much colour?'

'It passes the time,' John shrugged casually, but inside he was smiling.

Sherlock gaves him a look and eventually seemed to decide that it wasn't the time to start an argument. There were more important things to do. Like showing off to John. He pulled his phone out of his pocket.

'But if I do this ...' he said, pressing the keycard against his phone, 'If you press a key card against your mobile phone for long enough, it corrupts the magnetic strip. The card stops working. It’s a common problem – never put your key card with your phone.'

He gave John that sly, sideways look again.

'What happens if I use the card now?'

'It still doesn’t work.' John was getting annoyed with Sherlock's patronising questioning techniques.

Sherlock, however, just looked smug, 'But it doesn’t read as the wrong card now. It registers as corrupted. But if it’s corrupted, how do they know it’s not Magnussen?'

'Huh?'

'Would they risk dragging him off?'

'Probably not,' John admitted, although he was pretty certain that every member of staff in that building knew exactly what Mangussen looked like.

'So what do they do?' Sherlock persisted, 'What do they have to do?'

'Check if it’s him or not.'

'There’s a camera at eye height to the right of the door,' Sherlock swiped the card through the reader, which flashed once, but didn't unlock the door, 'A live picture of the card user is relayed directly to

Magnussen’s personal staff in his office – the only people trusted to make a positive ID... at this hour, almost certainly his PA.'

'S-so how’s that help us?' John really didn't want to point out the fatal flaw in Sherlock's plan, ie. that neither of them were Magnussen, but there was something in the slight twitch of Sherlock's mouth that told him there was more to the story, even so, he felt compelled to say, 'You realise you don’t exactly look like Magnussen?'

Sherlock's smirk was starting to get annoying, 'Which, in this case, is a considerable advantage.'

The tiny screen above the card reader blinked into life, and there was a brief shot of a dark haired woman. She hesitated for a second, and then nodded as Sherlock gave her his best smile, the one he normally reserved only for John. Then there was a click and the door to the elevator unlocked.

Sherlock immediately stepped inside and waited for John to follow.

'Sherlock...?'

But Sherlock was looking resolutely ahead.

'Did you...blackmail that woman to let us in?'

Sherlock frowned, 'No!' there was a guilty paused, 'I may have bribed her a little bit.'

'Jesus, Sherlock,' John leaned his head back against the wall of the lift and made a mental note to have a long chat with Sherlock when they got home. Assuming they didn't get arrested. Again. Fuck, sometimes he just wanted to shoot the man.

When the lift stopped, Sherlock bounded out looking around for the woman who had let them in. The he stopped and looked around more carefully. John knew that look, it meant there was something wrong.

'So where did she go?' John asked.

'It’s a bit rude,' Sherlock said, moving cautiosly across the office.

John went the other way, towards the large windows, and stopped when he came across the body of the young woman on the floor, 'Sherlock ...' there was blood on the carpet and John quickly checked her over, 'It’s a blow to the head,' he said, bending lower towards her, 'She’s breathing.'

As John worked, Sherlock looked around the rest of the office, stopping in the door way to the next room, 'Another in here. Security.'

'Does he need help?' John was reaching for his mobile phone when Sherlock's voice floated back into the room.

'Ex-con. White supremacist, by the tattoo, so who cares? Stick with her.'

John hesitated, but turned back to the woman again, 'Can you hear me?'

Sherlock was looking through the desk drawers when a thought occurred to John that chilled him. A thought he had been trying to ignore for the last minute.

'Hey,' he whispered, trying to get Sherlock's attention, 'They must still be here.'

But Sherlock didn't seem as preturbed by that statement as John was, 'So’s Magnussen. His seat’s still warm. He should be at dinner but he’s still in the building. Upstairs!'

John lifted his phpone again, 'We should call the police. '

'During our own burglary?! You’re really not a natural at this, are you?' the contempt dripped from Sherlock

s voice.

John sighed and put his phone down again and was about to speak when Sherlock held his hand up/

'No, wait, shh!' Sherlock started to sniff the air in the office, his eyes closed as he concentrated. It was certainly not the strangest thing John had ever seen him do, so he left him too it.

'Perfume,' Sherlock said eventually, 'not hers,' he added, nodding towards the woman on the floor, 'Claire-de-la-lune.' he turned around to look at John, 'Why do I know it?'

'Mary wears it,' John said casually, then blinked as he realised how easily he'd used Mary's name, but before he could dwell on it, there was a sound from upstairs and Sherlock was running towards the stairs

'Sherlock!'

#

Sherlock walked softly across the plush carpet that covered the hall, his concentration on the voice that was coming from the room at the end. It was quiet and anxious. Someone was clearly very frightened.

He strained to make out the words.

'What-what-what would your husband think, eh?'

Sherlock reached the door, which was slightly ajar, and leaned in to look through the gap as the voice continued in desperate tones.

'He ... your lovely husband, upright, honourable ...'

Magnussen was on the floor on his knees, his hands behind his head as he spoke.

'... so English. What - what would he say to you now? Nej, nej!'

Sherlock pushed the door open slowly to reveal a black clad figure standing over Magnussen, a gun pointed at his head.

'You’re-you’re doing this to protect him from the truth ... but is this protection he would want?'

At the sound of the door, the figure with the gun turned to face him, aiming at his chest.

Mary Watson.

#

'Is John with you?'

Thrown by Mary's presence, Sherlock tried to gather his wits, 'He’s, um ...'

'Is John here?' Mary said again, more firmly, her hand never wavering as she kept Sherlock in her line of sight.

'He-he’s downstairs.'

On the floor Magnussen was a pitiful figure. Gone was the cold, superior man and in his place was a frightened man in fear for his life. He looked up at Mary, face a mask of terror.

'So,' he said softly, 'what do you do now? Kill us both?'

Mary glanced over her shoulder at him, but clearly she thought that Sherlock was the bigger threat because she kept her gun pointed at him, her back turned to Magnussen. Well, Sherlock thought bitterly, that was interesting.

'Mary,' he said, moving towards her, his intense eyes looking straight into hers, 'Whatever he’s got on you, let me help.'

But this wasn't the Mary Watson he thought he knew. This wasn't the sweet nurse John had lived with. There was something else in her expression now, something hard and not unfamiliar. He realised that he had seen that same expression on John's face at times, that knowledge that you can and will kill if that's what it takes. That side of you that you push away and cover up, the side that only comes out when it's needed. The side that allows your hand to be steady as you pull the trigger.

As Sherlock moved Mary breathed out in frustration.

'Oh, Sherlock, if you take one more step I swear I will kill you.'

A small smile on his face, Sherlock shook his head, 'No, Mrs Watson. You won’t.'

He took another step forward.

She pulled the trigger.


	59. Chapter 59

Anthea was the only one in the office. She sat behind her laptop, a cup of coffee going cold at her side as she worked. It had taken a while to load all of the information from Mary's laptop, but now she was able to look through everything Mary had done for the last few months. It didn't take long to access her protected files thanks to a nifty programme one of the IT boys had installed for her, and soon Anthea was going through personal documents and emails. But nothing looked incriminating.

What was I expecting? She asked herself, staring at the screen, A raft of emails from Magnussen?

Most of the emails in her private folders were day to day non-descript stuff that Anthea didn't think warranted the extra level of protection. After all, who cared if Mary's old school friend had a new puppy, or where the clinic Christmas party was being held....

Because most people wouldn't care. Most people wouldn't look beyond the superficial. Most people wouldn't notice.

Anthea smiled.

'Got you.'

#

Greg couldn't sleep. He shifted restlessly beside Mycroft, who was curled on his side, deeply asleep. Greg watched him for a moment, still in awe of the fact that this wonder, brilliant man wanted him. Chose to be with him.

Mycroft Holmes. The most powerful man he had ever met. The most in control person in the country. And Greg had seen him completely undone, and by Greg's hand.

Greg smiled at him in the dark. The man could be difficult, and god knows he could be an insufferable dick sometimes. There were days when Greg could happily walk away and never look back, and days when he wanted to strangle the mad bastard, and he was mad. No one could be so...so without being a little unbalanced, although Mycroft had been making steps to improve his temper, it had been slow going. And this was Mycroft, the master of self control and poise. Greg shuddered to think what John went through going home to Sherlock, who was as mad as a sack full of spiders and made no attempts to control himself at all.

Leaning forward, Greg kissed Mycroft's forehead before climbing slowly out of bed and making his way down to the kitchen. He'd just filled a glass of water and was walking back across the cold tiles when Mycroft's mobile started to ring upstairs. There was a muffled swear word as Mycroft fumbled for it, still practically asleep, and Greg smiled again. Sleepy Mycroft was adorable. Not that he would ever tell Mycroft that.

There was the sound of the wardrobe door slamming and then footsteps moving rapidly across the bedroom floor. Whatever it was must be urgent.

'Gregory!' Mycroft shouted, his voice cracking.

That's when Greg knew something was wrong, and he ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time until he found Mycroft standing in the middle of the bedroom, trying to do up the buttons on his shirt, but his hands were shaking too hard to manage the buttons.

'It's...'

'Myc?' Greg moved forward and covered Mycroft's hands with his own, holding them still as Mycroft took several deep breaths and tried to compose himself.

'It's Sherlock.'

'Drugs?' Greg frowned at the look of pain on his husband's face.

'He's been shot.'

#

Sherlock was in surgery, and John was pacing the floor of the waiting room while Mycroft quietly text on his phone, no doubt filling Anthea in on what was happening. Or maybe he was ordering a missile strike on Scotland, Greg never really knew what Mycroft got up to when he had time on his hands.

Greg looked at the pale face of John Watson and prayed that he was wrong about his wife. For John's sake as much as Sherlock's.

Under the pretence of going to get coffee, Greg called Sally Donovan who sounded panicked when she answered, and he had to strain to hear her whispered words.

'What's going on? The super is freaking out and there are... _agents_ everywhere. They're taking paperwork and-'

'Sally, I need you to listen to me. Sherlock Holmes was shot, I need you to take on the case, but don't look into it too much.'

'You know who it was?'

Greg paused, unsure of how much else to tell her, 'Just hold the fort until I can get back to you. Okay.'

'Okay, sir.'

'Be careful, Sal.'

#

As the suited agents worked through the office, moving from desk to desk, Sally became increasingly aware of the information in her own desk, the recordings she wasn't supposed to know about, the case she wasn't officially supposed to be working.

Oh shit, she thought, her heart racing and her palms sweaty. This is bad.

#

John felt numb.

How many times were they going to do this? How many days was he going to spend sitting around hoping Sherlock pulled through? How many times was he going to lose him?

He'd felt the pain in his chest, familiar as only a gunshot wound can be. And for a moment he thought it was him. And then with a sickening lurch that left his entire body cold, he realised that it wasn't.

He didn't think his legs would carry him up the stairs, but he staggered on, dizzy and shaking until he reached the room where he found Sherlock on floor. Magnussen was several feet away, his face a bloody mess, the window behind him open to the December wind. John didn't have time to think about that as he knealt down beside Sherlock, hands feeling for a pulse.

They wouldn't let him go in the ambulance with Sherlock, and the other man had already been whisked off to theatre before John arrived. There was nothing he could do now but wait.

The hours passed in silence. Mycroft barely moved, while Greg slid nervously from waiting room to corridor and back, unable to settle for long, anxiety etched deep into his face.

Eventually he couldn't stay still any longer, or stand the silence. He raked his hand through his hair and headed for the door.

'I need a smoke.'

To the surprise of the other two men in the room, Mycroft stood with his usual elegant ease.

'I may join you.'

The two men stood side by side on the pavement outside, ignoring the self-righteous glare from a nurse as they blew long plumes of smoke into the air. It was a cold day, the sky grey and the air so sharp it burned the lungs with every breath.

Mycroft was paler than Greg had ever seen him, but he had an odd stillness to him that was unnerving. Truly, ice personified. He took another drag of his cigarette, his gaze focused on something far across the street.

'I will kill her.'


	60. Chapter 60

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and just a little short one since it might be next week before I can update again. However, with a bit of luck this will be finished. :)

John knew when it happened. When that heart he was forever connected to stopped. The pain ripped through him like nothing he had ever felt before. He'd thought he understood pain when Sherlock jumped off the roof of St Barts, but it was nothing compared to what he felt in that very second. How had he ever thought that Sherlock was dead when that pain was nothing compared to this one, his very being felt torn and scattered, the pain a physical force that drove him to his knees.

He was screaming as the darkness closed around him, reaching for a connection, a bond, that suddenly wasn't there anymore.

#

Sherlock dreamt.

He dreamt of pain and of screaming. He dreamt of Molly Hooper, she was angry at him. He couldn't focus, couldn't think. He dreamt of Mycroft. Condescending and concerned, pushing him to find something to hold on to. He dreamt of Anderson, asking him stupid questions and fuelling his frustrations. He dreamt of his old dog and he dreamt of the madman who took everything away from him.

He did not dream of John.

But he wanted to.

He wanted to find John. Moriarty taunted him with John's name, promised him that John would cry. And Sherlock knew it was the truth. He could already feel it, feel everything John was feeling and it coursed through him laced with desperation. He'd promised himself that he would never hurt John again. That he would never leave him the way he had. But this wasn't his choice. He didn't want to go this time. He wasn't ready to leave him.

John.

He needed John. Wanted John. Had to get back to him. Those were the only thoughts running through his mind as he ran through the carefully constructed rooms of his Mind Palace. He could hear John, just out of reach, he was saying something, shouting for him, his hand was brushing Sherlock's face and then suddenly it wasn't, and he felt like John was far, far away. Sherlock tried to run to reach him, tried to climb the stairs, but each step was harder, his body weighed down and weak. Every step took a physical effort, ripping the breath from him and leaving his body aching.

But at the top of the stairs would be John.

He didn't know how he knew, but he did, and with a belief that burned, pushing him on. Step after step. John.

John.John.John.John.

John!

Sherlock opened his eyes.

#

Low voices, calm and confident, reassuring in the dark. It didn't stop his heart racing erratically, seeming to skip, clenching at his chest, his breath was little more than shallow gasps.

Slowly he became aware of other things. Someone was pressing a mask to his face, and he could hear the soft rush of oxygen, feel cool hands pushing his hair back off his face. And then he opened his eyes, the light too bright, but the pain in chest tolerable.

'John?' a voice he knew. Distantly his mind supplied the name. Greg.

'He's coming around again,' another voice, female, professional. A voice he didn't know though. Doctor? Nurse? John blinked, trying to clear his vision, 'We should take him to his mate. They'll both recover better if they are close together.'

Finally, John thought, someone was talking sense.

There was the sensation of movement, the flash of lights above him and as his eyes began to focus again he could make out the white tiles on the roof, the occassional swish of a door, and then he was filled with a soft warmth he hadn't realised he'd been missing.

Sherlock.

His hand reached out, knowing instinctively where Sherlock was. His fingers wrapped around Sherlock's long, slender ones and he gripped tightly, rubbing his thumb across the gentle pulse in the detective's wrist.

'He's still out, John,' Greg's voice again, but he couldn't see the other man, 'But he'll be okay.'

He would. Because John needed him to be okay.

#

Sally Donovan silently watched as her desk was searched by a sombre looking man in an expensive suit. She could do nothing as the contents of her computer was checked and the files she had been working on were examined. The agent flicked open file after file, scanning the contents before setting them to one side and ignoring them. Sally was just starting to relax when the man stopped, ran his eyes back over the file he had just opened and then looked up at Sally, his expression grave.

'I'm going to need you to come with us.'

#

Mary Watson had some nerve.

Anthea was almost impressed.

She didn't see Anthea as she walked through the foyer of the hospital and up the stairs towards Sherlock's room. John, finally on his feet again, was coming down to meet her. From a distance Mary Watson was the concerned wife and friend. But Anthea knew that look on her face, she had seen it all too often. The smile as John informed her that Sherlock had pulled through would look, to most people, genuine and full of relief. But it was just a mask. And it wasn't fooling Anthea.


	61. Chapter 61

Everything was going to hell at a speed that made Greg's head spin. He walked back along the corridor towards the stairs, a deep frown on his face. He'd just left Mycroft at the front door.

'I have to go,' Mycroft had glared at his phone.

'But Sherlock-'

'It's about Sherlock.'

'Really?'

'Yes,' Mycroft sighed, 'Isn't everything.'

He called for his driver.

'Are you at least going to tell me where you are going?'

'Charles Magnussen is a witness to whatever happened in that room, and I need to ensure that I hear the truth before he prints some version of it. Oh, and Miss Donovan is having a long conversation with some of my collegues at MI6, she may be some time.'

'You swore that she wouldn't-'

Mycroft held up his hand, 'Rest assured, Gregory, she is perfectly safe. In fact Miss Donovan has been a great asset in the investigation and cover up. So much so that I believe my superiors would like to have words with her about her future career plans.'

'You can't take Sally away from me, she's my best sergent!'

Mycroft just raised his eyebrows slightly, the look on his face clearly saying what he thought about Sally Donovan, and to be honest, Greg couldn't blame Mycroft for his feelings on that. After all, Sally's actions had eventually led to Mycroft believing (for all of twenty four hours, but that wasn't the point) that his brother was dead.

There was no more time for conversation as Mycroft's car pulled up.

'I'll be at the office if you need me. And Anthea is here.'

'I didn't see her.'

Mycroft smiled at him, 'Exactly.'

#

John couldn't wipe the smile off his face as he climbed the stairs, Greg behind him. It seemed inappropriate to smile when your friend (mate, ex-mate, partner...? That was something to worry about later) had just been shot. But on the plus side, he knew that Sherlock definitely wasn't dead this time.

Although there was still that lingering worry at the back of his mind about who had shot him. It hadn't been Magnussen, there were no weapons in the room, no trace of residue on his hands. Magnussen had not been the one to pull the trigger. And if the wound Magnussed had recieved to the side of his head and the two unconcious staff members were anything to go by, Magnussen had been the intended target. Which meant Sherlock had interrupted something. But why shoot Sherlock if Magnussen was the one they were after. Why not take them both out?

Frowning at the thoughts whirling around in his mind, John realised that Lestrade had been talking to him all the way up the stairs.

'Sorry, what?'

'I was just asking if he's up to talking about it, unofficially of course.'

'You still suspended?'

Greg clenched his jaw, 'I'm on leave.'

'Right. Yeah, well, he's awake, but I dunno how much sense you’ll get out of him. He’s drugged up,

so he’s pretty much babbling.'

As they reached the top of the stairs, Greg took out his mobile, causing John to roll his eyes.

'Oh, they won’t let you use that in here, you know.' If he had a pound for every time he'd had to tell someone that...

But Greg just flashed him a sly grin, 'No, I’m not gonna use the phone. I just wanna take a

video.'

One of Mycroft's staff was standing, not very discreetly, outside Sherlock's door. He didn't have any weapons visible, but he probably didn't need any. If he was anywhere near as skilled as Anthea he could kill with a glare alone. Greg was used to Mycroft's staff and just nodded at the man as they passed unquestioned, but John stayed a little further away from him. He was brave, but he wasn't stupid.

The first thing John noticed was the rush of cool air that greeted them when he pushed open the door and his eyes automatically went to the open window and then the empty bed which had previously contained Sherlock. He felt Greg's frustration radiate off him and he could only sigh in response.

Fucking Sherlock.

#

If Greg was asked what his least favourite passtime was, he'd have to count 'Anything to do with Sherlock' up there as number one. In that specific moment it was 'Running around London like a plank looking for a madman who was high to his eyeballs on morphine and, despite recent evidence to the contrary, under the impression that he was invincible.'

To top it all off, no one knew London better than Sherlock, and they weren't going to find him if he went to ground. Even so, Greg called in for help and sent his team to the more commonly used boltholes, while he called Mycroft.

'You're brother has fucked off.'

'Pardon?'

'Sherlock,' Greg said very slowly, 'Has climbed out of a second floor window and vanished into the night.'

There was a muffled swear and the sound of Mycroft dismissing whoever was in the room with him. After a few seconds Mycroft came back on the line.

'So much for putting a guard on his door. I knew we should have gone with the restraints.'

'Yeah, well, we'll remember for next time.'

Mycroft sighed, 'Where have you looked?'

'The usual, Parliament Hill, Camden Lock and Dagmar Court....'

'Did you have someone sent to the Eye?'

'Yeah, although they won't let him on after last time. Gregson is heading to the aquarium and Dimmock is going to start on the museums,' Greg paused, 'I could really do with Donovan on this too.'

'You'll have to make do for now. What about Dr Watson?'

'John's asking around to see if anyone has any idea where he'd go. But the man has more boltholes than a family of foxes.'

'Yes, I've long since learned that you don't find Sherlock Holmes, _he_ finds _you.'_

Isn't that the truth, Greg thought as he hung up and headed towards his car.

#

Anthea walked into the office with a determined stride, she had kicked off her shoes and her barefeet made no sound on the plush carpet. Which Mycroft was certain, was entirely her intent. She had removed her jacket too, allowing for greater freedom of movement and easier access to her gun. She locked the door behind her and went to check the window, careful to keep to the side, out of a direct line of sight.

'Mrs Watson?' Mycroft asked, scrolling through his emails to see what other urgent matters might require his attention, after all, his brother taking off for a midnight jolly didn't really rank up there with imminent nuclear war, and as much as he loved his brother, he had his priorities. It was why he was so good at his job.

'Left home ten minutes ago heading towards Baker Street.'

'Is she being followed?'

Anthea just rolled her eyes and turned her attention to her blackberry.

#

Greg had not been able to get either Mycroft or Anthea on their phone, both lines had been engaged for the last two hours. He tried not to worry, certain that if there was anything to report that Mycroft would have let him know, but eventually his anxiety, and his knowledge that Mary Watson was still on the loose, sent him to Mycroft's office, where Mycroft was working on his computer, his brow creased.

'Gregory!'

'Sorry, I know I should be out there looking, but I just needed to check that you were okay.'

'Why wouldn't I be?' Mycroft may not have been paying Gregory too much attention at that second, but he caught the look that passed between the DI and Anthea. His annoyance deepened, he didn't have time for this sort of thing, he'd just been sent information on the location of rougue agent they'd been hunting for the last year. He didn't have time to be playing hide and seek with Sherlock too.

'Short of knocking on every door in London, I'm running out of ideas, Myc.'

'Try the blind greenhouse in Kew Gardens and the leaning tomb in Hampstead Cemetery,' he said, listing two of Sherlock's haunts from his teen years.

There was silence, and the tension in the room suddenly increased ten fold. Mycroft looked up in time to see Anthea ducking her head. Gregory had not moved. He was just standing on the other side of Mycroft's desk, his hands at his side and a dark look in his eyes.

'Did you just _wave me away?'_

Gregory's voice was barely a growl, and Mycroft blinked in surprise, looking down at his own hand. He hadn't been aware of doing it. He opened his mouth, but no suitable words were coming out.

Gregory pressed his lips into a line and gave Mycroft a _look._

'I'll try them then,' he said tightly, and then with more than a hint of sarcasm added, ' _sir.'_

#

It turned out that searching Hampstead cemetary in the middle of the night was about as much fun as it sounded. Greg's team had drawn lots for it, and the unlucky officers were dispatched with torches and a lot of swearing. Meanwhile, Greg headed to Baker Street, where John was pacing the flat, and Mrs Hudson was making endless cups of tea.

Suddenly John stopped moving.

'He knew who shot him.'

Fuck.

Greg fought to keep his expression neutral. John had no idea that his wife had shot his husband, and Greg sure as hell didn't want to deal with the trauma that would follow if that news was broken to him while said husband and wife were still unaccounted for. Angry John Watson was a force of nature, and if John found out that Greg knew about Mary and Sherlock, then it was a pretty safe bet that Greg would be making a return trip to the hospital a little sooner than he intended.

But...

This was John. His friend. He couldn't stand there and lie to his face. Not completely. He tried to word an answer that would guide John towards working it out for himself. He couldn't just tell him.

Greg took a breath, and tried, 'So why not tell us?'

John shook his head, and looked around the room as if he were going to find inspiration. The air was thick with worry and confusion. Greg bit his lip, considered the consequences of what he was about to say, and then said it anyway.

'Because he’s tracking them down himself.'

John nodded thoughtfully, 'Or protecting them.'

And now John was getting it. Greg could see the first flickers of doubt on his face, and he knew he just had to push John a little further so his mind would travel down the right path.

'Protecting the shooter?' he prompted, 'Why?'

But this just seemed to confuse John again, 'Well, protecting someone, then,' he made a wild gesture of frustration, 'But why would he care? He’s _Sherlock_. Who would he bother protecting?'

He sat down in his chair, gripping the arm rests tightly, a thoughtful expression on his face.

Lestrade suddenly knew what Sherlock meant when he went off on one of his rants about how slow other people were. It was hardly any wonder the man got frustrated when someone had all the evidence sitting in front of them and _still_ couldn't put two and two together. Greg gave up, knowing that he'd be more use out looking for Sherlock.

#

Protecting someone. _Someone._ But who?

John turned it over and over in his mind. Sherlock knew who shot him. That much was clear. And they were obviously involved with Magnussen in some way. Were they part of the case Sherlock had been working on? John shook his head, that was just... _retrieval._

But...Sherlock had said it was a ten...

John's gaze fell on the side table and an ornate bottle that looked familiar. It took him a second to place where he had seen it before, and he realised that Mary had one just like it on her dresser. Perfume.

A cold feeling started to creep through John and his grip on the arm rests tightened.

Claire de la Lune.

Another memory pricked at the back of his mind and his heart started to beat faster, a clawing in the pit of his stomach.

Claire de la Lune.

Knows the shooter.

Perfume.

Magnussen's office.

Protecting someone.

Mary's perfume....

John's phone rang.


	62. Chapter 62

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sorry about the delay, these last couple of chapters have been really hard to write. Hopefully the multi chapter update will make up for it, and now that I have actually joined the library I have a stable internet access. Enjoy - and sorry but this chapter needed quite a lot of dialogue lifted from the script, and it sort of went a bit crazy off canon at stages, and I know I keep promising that the end is coming, and it is - hopefully in the next few days.

  
There were few things that Greg Lestrade liked more than dropping to his knees and surprising his husband with an impromtu blow job.  
He'd never struggled with the idea of it like other men he knew, although John had admitted once that he'd tried it, but it seemed his alpha instincts weren't going to drive him to do it again in a hurry. Greg had no such hang ups. There was something very intoxicating about the power and control he had when he did it. And the soft, needy sounds that Mycroft made, and the way his hand gripped Greg's hair and tried not to thrust as Greg slowly worked him towards orgasm. And the best bit of it was knowing that he had been the one to do that Mycroft, to reduce the controlled and collected Ice Man to a gasping mess with just his tongue and lips and the slight graze of teeth when Mycroft tried to dictate the pace.  
But that wasn't the only reason. There was another one, one he wasn't going to be able to keep from Mycroft much longer. If it wasn't for his concern over his brother, Greg was certain Mycroft would have already noticed.

#

Mycroft had noticed.

#

Sherlock's conversation with Magnussen had been...interesting, and while the man was a complete arse, he was also rather brilliant in his own way. Evil and manipulative and dangerous, yes, but then, people had said the same thing about the Holmes brothers. Well, two of them anyway...  
What had deeply disturbed him was the look in the man's eyes. He'd seen that look on other faces before, and a grip of panic had settled over him. The man reminded him most of Mycroft, cool, composed, ruthless. But where Mycroft did what he had to do, Magnussen did what he wanted.  
And Mary...somehow it all came down to Mary.  
Sherlock picked up his phone.

#

Mary strode along the street, frowning slightly. Leinster Gardens, that's what that fool from forensics had said when Mary questioned him.   
'That’s his number one bolt hole. It’s top-top secret.' Anderson had looked slightly impressed as he spoke, as if he was expecting a pat on the back.  
And so there Mary was, walking along the deserted street of tall houses in the dead of night because someone she wouldn't trust to analyse toast had told her to go there.  
She wasn't expecting the phone that was pressed into her hand.  
'First rule of finding Sherlock, is that Sherlock finds you?'  
She looked at the scruffy man and couldn't keep the look of disdain off her face.  
'Oh, so you're working for Sherlock now?' she knew him. Had driven him to the hospital the day they found Sherlock in the drug house. Of course Sherlock would employ junkies. Who else was crazy enough to do his dirty work for him. She pushed away the trecherous little voice that told her 'John does.'  
The man shrugged, 'Keeps me off the streets, doesn't it?'  
Mary paused, 'Well...no.'  
Before Mary could say anything else, the phone in her hand started to ring.  
'Where are you?' she asked straight away.  
'Cant you see me?' there was a teasing tone to Sherlock's voice that had always annoyed Mary.  
'Well what am I looking for?'  
'The lie – the lie of Leinster Gardens – hidden in plain sight.'  
Mary looked up at the houses as Sherlock carried on speaking, her sharp eyes noticing something was wrong with the houses.  
'Hardly anyone notices. People live here for years and never see it, but if you what I think you are, it’ll take you less than a minute,' that smug tone was starting to grate. So help her she was going to shoot him properly this time, 'The houses, Mary. Look at the houses.'  
'How did you know I’d come here?' She was stalling as she tried to work out what it was about the buildings that was wrong. And Sherlock knew it too. Still, he played along.  
'I knew you’d talk to the people no-one else would bother with.'  
Mary gave a bitter laugh, 'I thought I was being clever.'  
They both knew she wasn't just talking about this little jaunt.  
'You’re always clever, Mary. I was relying on that. I planted the information for you to find.'  
And that's when she saw it. The two houses with painted on windows and and open door. She realised that someone could walk past these every day and never notice that. They would see, but they wouldn't take them in. Of course, Sherlock would.  
'Ohh.' she said slowly, What am I looking at?'  
And she listened as Sherlock explained how the houses were just a facade now, demolished to make way for the underground.   
'Only the very front section of the house remains. It’s just a façade,' took a deep breath that sounded slightly wrong, 'Remind you of anyone, Mary? A façade.'  
And without warning the front of the houses lit up with projection of her face, smiling sweetly. Shit. This was not going according to plan.  
'Sorry, Sherlock drawledm, not sounding sorry in the slightest, 'I never could resist a touch of drama. Do come in. It’s a little cramped.  
And so she did.

#

From the shadows, Sherlock watched Mary Watson as she caught sight of the figure in the wheelchair, shrouded in darkness, coat collar turned up.  
'What do you want, Sherlock?'  
Sherlock got straight to the point, 'Mary Morstan was stillborn in October 1972. Her gravestone is in Chiswick Cemetery where, five years ago, you acquired her name and date of birth and thereafter her identity. That’s why you don’t have ‘friends’ from before that date.' No family either, ut Sherlock didn't feel the need to point that out, 'It’s an old enough technique,' Sherlock went on as Mary stared at his sillouette, 'known to the kinds of people who can recognise a skip-code on sight ...have extraordinarily retentive memories ...'  
Sherlock let his words sink in and Mary knew that he knew. And he would tell John and then...that familiar bitterness that she felt about Sherlock started to creep back through her body, the anger replacing the surge of panic that had gripped her just a moment ago. She could still fix this. One bullet, no one would find him here.  
'You were very slow.'  
Sherlock just asked, 'How good a shot are you?'  
'How badly do you want to find out?' she pulled her gun from her coat but Sherlock was never easily intimidated. The last time she had pointed a gun at him, the man had just kept walking towards her, confident in himself. This time was no different.  
'If I die here, my body will be found in a building with your face projected on the front of it.   
Even Scotland Yard could get somewhere with that.'  
'I want to know how good you are,' Sherlock's voice was almost a pur, 'Go on. Show me. The doctor’s wife must be a little bit bored by now.  
The coin she tossed in the air flipped as the bullet hit it, landing at her feet, a neat hole that was almost centered. She tried not to be annoyed about that. Which is why it took her a second to see Sherlock emerging from the wrong end of the corridor. She glances to the other end, where the figure sat in the chair and she laughed at her own stupidity. She was getting sloppy. Her old self wouldn't have fallen for that.  
'It’s a dummy. I suppose it was a fairly obvious trick.'  
Sherlock looked at the coin, nd yet, over a distance of six feet, you failed to make a kill shot. Enough to hospitalise me; not enough to kill me. That wasn’t a miss, that was surgery.' Sherlock frowned, and his voice turned angry when he spoke next, 'Why didn’t you come to me in the first place?'  
'Because John can’t ever know that I lied to him. It would break him and I would lose him   
forever – and, Sherlock, I will never let that happen. Please ...understand. There is nothing in this world   
that I would not do to stop that happening.'  
The full implication of her words rocked Sherlock and he felt a stab of pity for the woman who had lost her mate. He had watched Lestrade go through that twice, he had watched from a distance as John had gone through it, and Mycroft. He'd seen enough broken hearts to last a lifetime, and he wouldn't wish that on anyone. But, that evil little voice in his head said, John was yours first.  
'Sorry,' Sherlock said eventually, and sounded like he meant it, 'But you already have.'

#

The light flooded the corridor and John stood up, not fully trusting his legs to support him as he walked towards the two people in the world who mattered most to him. He looked from the man he knew to the woman he thought he knew, both watching him, one fearful, the other carefully composed.  
There was no expression on his face as he looked at them, unable to process everything, slipping automatically into his soldier mask, body shutting down as his mind worked, descisions, questions. His mind didn't work like Sherlock's, or like Mary's. They both ruminated on problems, Sherlock for hours or days at a time. John had spent his entire adult life making snap decisions, life or death decisions.  
Two people watched him. One who had broken his heart and lied to him for two years, and the other who had been lying from day one.  
He pushed past them both, unable to breath in the tiny space any longer.

 


	63. Chapter 63

Mrs Hudson had presence of mind to call Mycroft and let him know that Sherlock had turned up back at Baker Street. She didn't tell him the state he was in, or that John and Mary were with him, looking like someone had died. Mary looked like she had been crying, and John had reverted to that expression she'd hoped to never see on his face again, the one he'd worn when Sherlock had been gone.  
'What is going on?'  
'Bloody good question!' John snapped.  
Sherlock glanced at John, 'The Watsons are about to have a domestic, and fairly quickly, I hope, because we’ve got work to do.' his words were laden with meaning, and it was clear to everyone that he was including himself in that group. All three Watson's.  
'Oh, I have a better question,' John moved towards Mary, 'Is everyone I’ve ever met a psychopath?'  
Sherlock paused as if considering that question. Possibly Lestrade might be excluded from that goup, buthis relationship with Mycroft suggested that there was probably something wrong with the man after all.'Yes,' was all he said.  
'You,' John pointed at Mary, 'What have I ever done ... hmm? ... my whole life ... to deserve you?'  
And that right there was what it came down to.  
She had shot his best friend. He tried not to think about the fact that Sherlock had kept it from him.  
'Everything.' Sherlock's voice was calm. So calm that John thought he might break.  
'But she wasn’t supposed to be like that. Why is she like that?'  
'Because you chose her.' Sherlock had said that once to John before, when he first came back. But now, those very same words had a different meaning, and they all knew it.  
Mary was like, because Sherlock was like. The truth of that settled thick in the air, and John felt equally ashamed and anguished. He'd tried to fill that massive void Sherlock had left, unknowingly seeking out someone who was just as...he tried to find a word, but the only one that came to mind was 'brilliant.'  
'What are you?' John asked her, but it was Sherlock who Mary looked at.  
'How much d’you know already?'  
'By your skill set, you are, or were, an intelligence agent. Your accent is currently English but I suspect   
you are not. You’re on the run from something; you’ve used your skills to disappear. Magnussen knows   
your secret, which is why you were going to kill him.'  
'The stuff Magnussen has on me, I would go to prison for the rest of my life.'  
'So you were just gonna kill him?'  
Mary's answer was unusually sharp, 'People like Magnussen should be killed. That’s why there are people like me.'  
'And Sherlock?' John snarled, 'Does he deserve to be killed.'  
'She didn't kill me, John,' Sherlock said softly.  
'She shot you in the chest at point blank range, Sherlock, and then left you there. I know I'm not as smart as you, but even I can see that's not a good thing!'  
Mary said nothing, she just stared at them as the sound of sirens sounded in the street below them.  
'Looks like Mycroft has arrived.'

#

Mary went without fuss, loaded into one of Mycroft's cars instead of the police car that had also arrived. As Anthea escorted Mary to wherever Mycroft had decided she should go, Mycroft sat down and regarded his brother for a long moment.  
'There are some things I think you should know about Mary Watson.'

 


	64. Chapter 64

  
Christmas day. Mummy had insisted on full attendance, and even Mycroft couldn't refuse the Holmes matriarch. But silently he was seething that Gregory had managed to miss most of the day due to work, having pulled the early shift. But he was going to drive up later in the day, and Mycroft had every intention of showing him hw displeased he was to have to suffer alone.  
John had been unusually silent these last few weeks, and he kept shooting looks at Mycroft, a small frown on his face as if he were trying to work something out. Mycroft could clearly read every thought that passed his mind, and had been doing so since the night Mary Watson had been escorted out of Baker Street.  
He had explained to John and Sherlock, as much as he could, about the recordings and the dead agents. John had paled and for a second looked like he needed to vomit. But he had pulled himself together and then taken himself upstairs to his old bedroom, where he had been sleeping ever since.  
The issue of Magnussen still hung in the air, and Mycroft could see that Sherlock was spending much of his time thinking about it. But they didn't talk about it again.  
Gregory had been spending more time with John, which left Mycroft feeling less guilty as he and Anthea worked to clear the resulting mess. Sally Donovan had been retained for over a week, and was up to her ears in non-disclosure agreements and national secrets act. She'd also recieved a job offer from MI6, and Mycroft thought she should take it.  
Only once did John ask about Mary, but Mycroft shook his head, 'I'm afraid I can't disclose that information.'  
'Is she alive?'  
'Yes.'  
Sherlock had been quiet all day, the papers had been full of the news of Lord Smallwood's suicide. Magnussen had printed the letters that Sherlock had been hired to retrieve. He'd fucked up and a man was dead because of it. John's reassurance that he'd been incapacitated at the time did little to take away that edge of guilt.  
There had been nothing in the news about Mycroft and the recordings. To date Mycroft and his people had been able to keep a lid on that, but it was only a matter of time before Magnussen would use them against Mycroft to ensure whatever he wanted.  
If he controlled Mycroft, he controlled the country. And if the recordings got out, particularly the recording of the Tehran mission, Mycroft would be convicted of treason. It would end his career, possibly his life, and the disgrace would kill their parents. The wait was torture.

#

The message came.

Tomorrow, Mr Holmes.

#

Mycroft simply raised his eyebrows and put his mobile back in his pocket. But to Sherlock, who was an expert when it came to reading his brother, Mycroft might as well have written it across the sky. He frowned, glanced at John, and then returned to his newspaper. It was time.

#

Greg pulled up in front of the Holmes house and stretched as he climbed out of the car. It was a cosy place, comfortable and welcoming and Mummy adored him. And of course, there was Mycroft waiting. Here's hoping no one had committed murder while he was working.  
The house was eerily quiet as he let himself in, which was unusual for any building containg the Holmes parents. Moving softly, his policeman's insitinct taking over, Greg moved towards the kitchen. He could smell Mycroft, but there was a suspicious lack of Sherlock or John, just lingering traces that were already fading.  
He opened the kitchen door.

#

'What the fuck has he done now?' Greg roared into John's ear.  
John glanced at Sherlock who was sitting beside him, Mycroft's laptop on his knees.  
'I'll explain later.' he said, ending the call, then he turned to Sherlock, 'This is one of your more stupid ideas.'  
'I don't have stupid ideas.'  
John just raised his eyebrows as Sherlock went on.  
'I have daring and cunning plans. Dangerous ones,' he added with a smirk.  
'And you would really sell out your own brother just to get a look inside Appledore?'  
'Of course not, Mummy would be furious.'  
'And so what are you doing handing out state secrets like sweeties?'  
'It was a bad plan.'  
'No, Sherlock,' John pointed his finger, 'Once was a bad plan. Twice is a habit. And you know this is treason, right?'  
'John, you're worrying over nothing.'  
John pursed his lips looked out the window, wondering if he could murder his mate and get away with it.  
'That said, do you bring your gun?'  
'Why would I bring my gun to your parents house for Christmas?' John tried to sound incredulous, but only recieved a look from Sherlock. He sighed, 'It's in my pocket.'


	65. Chapter 65

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> okay, so I promised to finish this story this week and guess what????? I have. So today I will post the last few chapters, some of which are quite dialogue heavy - although I've changed and cut a fair bit of it so you'll get the gist, but won't have to re-read scenes we all already know by heart. Oh, and it seems this story sort of ended with some unresolved issues.......hehehehe

Magnussen was waiting for them, his secuirty staff escorted John and Sherlock into the building, and John couldn't help be intimidated by the house.

'I really hope you know what you are doing.'

Magnussen had a glass in his hand, but didn't offer John or Sherlock a drink. That didn't preturb Sherlock, who sat down close to Magnussen, staring at a screen across the room which showed Sherlock rescuing John from that bonfire the year before. John looks surprised, but Sherlock just watches it impassively, as if he was expecting it.

'Oh, so it was you.'

'Yes, of course. Very hard to find a pressure point on you, Mr Holmes. The drugs thing I never

believed for a moment. Anyway, you wouldn’t care if it was exposed, would

you?'

Sherlock shrugged.

'But look how you care about John Watson.'

John advanced towards Magnussen, 'You ...put me in a fire...for leverage?'

'Let me explain how leverage works, Doctor Watson. For those who understand these

things, Mycroft Holmes is the most powerful man in the country. Well ... apart from me. Mycroft’s pressure point is his junkie detective brother, Sherlock. And Sherlock’s pressure point is his best friend, and former mate, John Watson.  John Watson’s pressure point is his wife. I own John Watson’s wife ...I own Mycroft. It really was most convenient that the famous blogger happened to mate with an assassin from Mycroft's old team. It was almost like it was meant to be...' he trailed off with a soft smirk that John wanted to punch from his face.

Sherlock slid the laptop across the sofa towards Magnussen, 'It's an exchange, not a gift. In return you give us all the information relating to Mary Watson.'

'I didn't know you cared so much about the woman.'

'I don't,' Sherlock's eyes narrowed and there was genuine hate in his voice.

Magnussen smiled again and looked down at the laptop in his hands, 'You know, I honestly expected something good.'

'Oh, I think you’ll find the contents of that laptop-'

'-Include a GPS locator.  By now, your brother will have noticed the theft, and security services will be converging on this house.  Having arrived they’ll find top secret information in my hands and have every justification to search my vaults.  They will discover further information of this kind and I’ll be imprisoned. You will be exonerated, and restored to your smelly little apartment to solve crimes with Mr and Mrs

Psychopath.'

He went on to make boasts about Mycroft, but Sherlock zoned out, paying more attention to the look on Magnussen's face.

'Why are you smiling?' he demanded.

'Because Sherlock Holmes has made one enormous mistake which will destroy the lives of everyone he loves... and everything he holds dear.'

Sherlock heard John sigh and mutter, 'Not this shit again.'

Magnussen stood up, 'Let me show you the Appledore vaults.'

Without waiting for them, Magnussen led the way to a set of doors, putting his hand on them before speaking, 'The entrance to my vaults.  This is where I keep you all.'

With that he pulled the doors open and and stepped through, turning slowly to face them. John could feel the suprise radiating off his mate along with something else that was too close to admiration for John's comfort.

The room Magnussen showed them was just a small windowless room, brightly lit, the only furniture a chair. John frowned, not grasping what was happening. Where were the shelves and book cases, the files and information, computers, letters, anything....oh.

Magnussen watched their faces as they realised what this meant, and suddenly John understood why Sherlock was impressed.

Magnussen raised his finders to his head, 'The Appledore vaults are my Mind Palace.  You know about Mind Palaces, don’t you, Sherlock?'

Mind Palaces. Of course it had to be fucking mind palaces. John groaned as the realisation washed over him that as far as this case went, as far as stopping Magnussen went, they were pretty much fucked.

They watched and listened as Magnussen explained how his mind palace worked, although, unlike Sherlock's which was room after room of information, Magnussen's seemed to be filled with filing cabinets.

'So there are no documents?' John asked, 'You don’t actually have anything here?'

'Oh, sometimes I send out for something ...' Magnussen replied dismissively, 'If I really need it. But mostly I just remember it all.'

John was shaking his head, 'I don’t understand.'

'You should have that on a T-shirt.' Magnussen taunted.

'You just remember it all?'

'It’s all about knowledge. Everything is. Knowing is owning.'

'But if you just know it, then you don’t have proof!' John pressed.

'Proof?  What would I need proof for? I’m in news, you moron.  I don’t have to prove it – I just have to print it.'

Except...there was proof, wasn't there? Mycroft hadn't gone into too much detail, but he had said there were certain recordings that had been made known. No threats, bribes or D-Documents in the world could stop someone like Magnussen, because once the information was released there was no stopping it.

'Speaking of news, you’ll both be heavily featured tomorrow – trying to sell state secrets to me,' Magnussen tutted at them as if they were naughty school children caught trying to skip class, 'Let’s go outside.  They’ll be here shortly.'

As Magnussen walked towards the front doors, John edged closer to Sherlock, 'Do we have a plan? Because otherwise a lot of people are going to end up dead, us included. Sherlock?

Outside the sky was darkening and Mangussen stood on the terrace, looking up, 'They’re taking their time, aren’t they?'

John stopped beside him, 'I still don’t understand.'

'And there’s the back of the T-shirt. It works like this, John.  I know who Mary hurt and killed. I know where to find people who hate her. I know where they live; I know their

phone numbers. All in my Mind Palace – I could phone them right now and tear your whole life down – and the lives of everyone you know. I could tear this country down. And I will, because this is what I do. This is what I do to people, to _countries._ '

There was the sound of approaching helicopters, and suddenly the lawn was filled with armed marksmen and the air filled with the sound of Mycroft Holmes shouting his brother's name.

'Stand away from that man.' Mycroft bellowed.

Sherlock shouted over the sound of the helicopter, 'To clarify: Appledore’s vaults only exist in your mind, nowhere else, just there?

'They’re not real.  They never have been.'

John looked around at Sherlock, ignoring Mycroft who was still shouting orders, 'Sherlock, what do we do?'

Magnussen looked around at them, expression smug and confident, 'Nothing! There’s nothing to be done!  Oh, I’m not a villain. I have no evil plan.  I’m a businessman, acquiring assets. You, and your brother, and the British Government happen to be just some of them!'

So sorry.  No chance for you to be a hero this time, Mr Holmes.

Sherlock lifted his head and looked directly at Magnussen then, his expression one that frightened John, 'Oh,do your research. I’m not a hero ...I’m a high-functioning sociopath. Merry Christmas!'

The crack of a single shot of gunfire was loud even over the sounds of the helicopter and Mycroft, who was now screaming at his men on the ground to not fire on his brother. Sherlock just tossed the gun to the side and raised his hands as John looked on in horror.

 

#

 

From his view in the helicopter, Mycroft watched as his younger brother shot Charles Magnussen in the head at point blank range. Watched the man fall and knew that his brother had just sacrficed himself to save those around him.

 


	66. Chapter 66

When Greg had found Mycroft and his parents at the Holmes family cottage his heart had clenched tightly and he immediately thought the worst. But they were alive, and although he knew he should have tended to the elderly couple first, he dropped down beside Mycroft, gently trying to raise his mate. Mycroft stirred slightly for a moment, but then slipped back into unconciousness.

Greg leaned his head against Mycroft's knee and closed his eyes. He was going to fucking kill Sherlock.

 

#

 

Mycroft fought against the drugs, trying to pull himself back to coniousness. He was vaguley aware of someone else in the room, pulling hard at his arm, pinching him fiercely. And that old memory came back.

_No one is coming for you._

He tried to mentally brace himself for the sting of a whip or the slash of a knife, ready for the pain. But all he felt was a soft weight against his leg, and then the most amazing smell in the world finally filtered through to him.

 

#

 

Mycroft opened his eyes and looked at Greg, his expression one of wonder and fear and confusion.

'You came?'

Greg just nodded and wrapped his arm around his husbands shoulder, pressing his face into the other man's neck, breathing in the scent of him, feeling the reassuring warmth of his body.

'I'll always come for you,' he whispered.

 

#

 

The house suddenly seemed full of people, kneeling beside his parents, talking in calm voices and helping them to their feet to lead them to more comfortable chairs to doze off the effects of the drugs. Mycroft was helped to his feet and leaned heavily on Gregory as he was led outside, protesting loudly. There was a helicopter in the lane, the only place large enough for it to land.

To Mycroft's surprise, Anthea was standing leaning her hip against his parent's fence post, barefoot and wearing a clingy red dress and far more make-up than normal. Her appearance might have been unusual for her, but her professionalism wasn't and she handed Mycroft a mobile phone and updated him on the situation as Greg helped him into the helicopter.

'Anthea, dear, go home,' he said weakly.

'And miss all the excitement?' she raised one perfectly sculpted brow.

'Yes,' Mycroft was firm, already instructing his pilot to take off, but not before leaning

back towards his mate and squeezing his hand tightly. Greg notted in return.

'Be careful,' he said, 'I'll see you at home.'

Mycroft just nodded as they rose in the air.

Greg watched Mycroft and his pilot leave, and then slung his arm around Anthea's shoulder and steered her back towards the Holmes house.

'I know for a fact that this house contains enough alcohol for a herd of elephants, and Mummy will have cooked for twenty,' Greg winked at her.

'Well, why didn't you say? It would be a shame to let all that effort go to waste.'

 

#

 

The effects of the drug were short lived, and within half an hour both the elderly Holmes were fully awake and back on their feet. Mummy looked delighted to have additional company, Greg helped her dish out the lavish dinner she had prepared. They were just carrying a glass of wine into the living room when they heard Anthea speaking with Mr Holmes.

'...sir can be very single minded when it comes to work. Or Sherlock,' Anthea said in response to whatever question she had just been asked.

'Why do you insist on calling him sir?'

'Because Mycroft is a stupid name.'

There was silence in the little room, and while Mr Holmes and Greg looked worried, Mummy just handed Anthea a glass of wine with a cheeky smile.

'Isn't it?' she asked, a wicked tone to her voice, 'Although to be honest, I was rather high on anastetic when I picked it.'

Greg counldn't contain the loud snort of laughter that escaped at that revelation.

 

#

 

Sherlock was arrested, as was John. Mycroft was not allowed to speak with them.

'Conflicting interests, Holmes,' one of his superiors sadly informed him, 'Go home, try to get some rest, which eveuatually he did.

Greg was aleady there, having returned safely from his parents house hours ago, and was already sprawled out in bed, fast asleep with one arm flung above his head, and the other hanging over the edge of the bed, his face untroubled in sleep, unaware of what Sherlock had done, or what it would mean.

Without turning on the light, Mycroft stripped off and slid into bed beside him, automatically wrapping himself around his husband, head on his chest. Greg stirred slightly and his arms draped themselves around Mycroft, pulling him tighter against him. He mumbled something unintelligble, and Mycroft smiled softly, burying his face into Greg's shoulder, taking the quiet moment and enjoying it, knowing what the following days were to bring.

 

#

 

Greg woke to find Mycroft laying on his side, wide awake and watching him intently. With great care, Mycroft reached out and brushed his fingers reassuringly against Greg's cheek, and Greg sighed into the contact.

'You know, don't you?'

'Yes.'

There was a long silence as both men just looked at the other, a silent conversation flowing between them, conveyed in looks and touch.

'You could have just told me. I should have noticed,' Mycroft said with a frown, 'I thought you...you didn't want me anymore.'

'I told you that you were an idiot,' Greg sighed affectionately, but his expression was serious, 'I want you. But there are... _bits_ that aren't cooperating. I thought it was just exhaustion and distraction from everything that was going on...I was embarassed.'

Mycroft closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against his mates. They stayed like that for a long time, neither needing to say anything more.

 

#

 

Mycroft stood at teh larage window of a meeting room, his back to the group seated behind him.

'As my colleague is fond of remarking,' he said, not taking his gaze away from what he was looking at, 'This country sometimes needs a blunt instrument. Equally, it sometimes needs a dagger – a scalpel wielded with precision and without remorse.' he glanced around at some of his collegues, who did not look convinced. Mycroft pressed on regardless, vowing that _this_ time he would be able to keep his brother, 'There will always come a time when we need Sherlock Holmes.'

He waited for the first accusation of nepotistic excuse to come, and he wasn't disapointed when one of the assembled members spoke up.

'If this is some expression of familial sentiment ...?'

And that was it, that was what Mycroft had needed to save Sherlock, he forced himself not to smile, chosing instead to roll his eyes.

'Don’t be absurd.  I am not given to outbursts of brotherly compassion.'

He glanced down for one second, allowed his words to sink in, and then he played his trump card.

'You know what happened to the other one.'

And with those eight words, Mycroft ensured that Sherlock was safe.

 

For now.


	67. Chapter 67

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the very last chapter in this fic. I stopped it short of the end of the other one because I'm about to go off piste now. It's a tiny, tiny chapter, but I really felt like it deserved a chapter of it's own. I just want to say thanks to all the people who read, commented and left kudos on this - seriously, you guys are wonderful and have kept me going these last six months. I honestly thought this series was going to be a thousand words at most and so far it's over 150k!!! In other news.....there are unresolved issues and much angst for these guys so.....hint hint!

He was leaving again.

And he wasn't coming back this time.

But...he'd be alive. That was some kind of comfort, but not much. John would never know what happened to Sherlock during the rest of his life, would never know where he was, if he was hurt, or if he was....

Exile. That was the deal, the only deal that Mycroft could broker that would ensure his brother would live. It was the second time he had sent one of his brothers away, made them disappear to save their lives. It didn't make it any easier, and the man's pain was a physical presence on the runway with them.

Sherlock was leaving him again.

This time, he wasn't coming back. This time there would be no unexpected return, no campaigns to clear his name, no one would believe in Sherlock Holmes.

And John had nothing to say about it as his heart was broken by that incredible, infuriating man all over again.


End file.
